2020-05-03 - WTF is it with Bears and this Town?

Vic asked around for some place cheap to eat, and the sound of 'the diner over on Spruce' sounded fine to her. She pulls up in a sexy beast of a pickup, a 2019 Dodge Ram 1500 Classic Warlock special edition. Working for Monaghan pays well, clearly. The Hemi under the hood growls pleasantly as the sleek machine idles at the curb out front for a moment, all dark smoky gray with black trim. The bed as a solid retractable cover, it has a sun roof, and all the bells and whistles including the tow hitch for her airstream trailer. Then it shuts off and the tall woman climbs out, hopping down from the running boards.

She frowns for a moment up at the sign. "Grizzly Den Diner," she mutters, making a note to punch the person who recommended it without telling her the actual name. But she's hungry, so she steps inside, and looks immediately horrified. It's not that the food or service are bad, it's that the entire fucking place is loaded with bears. Wooden bear statues, carved bear heads, and bear busts are everywhere, and stare at her with their dead carved or painted eyes. She freezes, and feels the phantom echo of pain in her back and hip from where the Veil Bear clawed her a few days ago. It's healed, physically. But it's still haunting her, clearly. She's in jeans and a plain white tee with tac boots, her hair down and loose in waves.

Out in the parking lot is a big black sidecar rig of a motorcycle, cover drawn over the sidecar seat and opening. Well maintained, but clearly not cherry new, drawn off into a corner like the owner's afraid it'll get dented.

And in the diner, its rider is at the counter. Joe looks like twenty miles of bad road; the sailor's sporting a whole mess of bruises on the left side of his face, from temple down to jaw. A formerly split lip has calmed down enough that he's eating with apparent comfort, but by the way he's kind of perched at a funny, hipshot angle on his stool, he's got other wounds or bruises under his clothes. Nevermind the scars that stretch from wrist to elbow....and the fact that he has, apparently, only the barest trace of Glimmer. Barely there.

He's got a bowl of soup in front of him, and an e-reader propped against the napkin dispenser, glasses on.

Vic Glimmers. Not blindingly, but somewhere in the middle ground of power levels. She moves, however, like a great jungle cat, all lean muscle and grace, prowling more than walking. She exudes that sense of predatory energy he might recognize as similar to Ruiz. Is it an energy shared by dirty cops? Addicts? People who like to shoot or hit things? Maybe. Either way, she shakes off the moment of frozen terror at the sight of Bear-a-palooza, because her stomach is rumbling and she needs some coffee in her system.

The woman heads to the counter and claims a stool a few down from Joseph, sliding onto it and tapping the corner of her truck key fob on the countertop while she waits for the waitress to get to her. She mutters, under her breath but audible to Joe, "What is it with this town and goddamned bears?"

The fighters, those versed in blood. Not one Joe's ever shared - with a few exceptions he's done his killing from thousands of feet above, sanitary as a video game. "I dunno," he opines, a little thickly. "Folks 'roun' here seem to have a thing for 'em. No grizzlies lef', but plenty of black bears in the area," he suggests.

He's only eating lackadaisically, without enthusiasm. But he seems alert enough, as he glances at her. "Food's good here, though, even if you don't care for bears." That accent doesn't belong here, not remotely.

Vic's dark blue eyes narrow as she looks over at Joseph, responding to her rhetorical question. "You don't sound local," she points out. There's no cheery smile or bright glint of greeting in her glance. It's flat, almost like a shark's, not conveying any sort of emotion. The waitress comes over and hands her the laminated menu. "Coffee," she states flatly to the woman as she scans the offerings with lips pressed in a tight line.

"With a stack of pancakes and a side of bacon." She dismisses the waitress with a flick of her wrist to hand the menu back, and looks over at Joe again. "Anything on the menu I should avoid, that's hopefully not the pancakes, bacon, or coffee?" she asks.

"Anything egg-based is kinna dodgy, sometimes," Joe advises. "No omelet or scrambled eggs. Pancakes and waffles are damned good. So're the sandwiches." He slants a look at her, out of the corner of his eye. "No, I'm not local. I sailed in a few months ago, decided to stay. 'bout you? Don't know that I've seen you before, but then, I get out less'n I did." It's been a lot of trauma, of late.

Vic gets a mug set in front of her and the coffee poured into it. She doesn't add anything to it, sipping it it's pure state, straight from the hellmouth in which it was brewed. "Moved down from Hoquiam recently. Used to live in Portland." She seems satisfied with the quality of the coffee but as she used to be a cop, her coffee palate is likely dead and dust by now after drinking police station tar for decades.

She slants a look back at Joseph. "Sailed? Literally or metaphorically?"

Not that his is at all refined, after decades of drinking coffee with a permanent lacing of jet fuel and bilge. But his own is clearly doctored with plenty of cream, at least. And probably lots of sugar.

Joe faces her fully, now. "Literally. Set out from Savannah, Georgia nearly two years ago. Got here right 'fore Christmas. Decided to at least winter here - berthing fees ain't bad, and I was so goddamn tired of fighting the Pacific swell."

"And now it's Spring. So, what is keeping you in the middle of assfuck nowhere?" Vic asks with the faintest of smirks over the rim of her coffee cup. She sniffs a bit, and swipes at her nose with the back of her hand for just a moment. "I mean, it's a town, but if you can sail basically anywhere, there are way nicer places to berth a boat. Like fucking Hawai'i. Or someplace on the Gulf."

Oh, that smile - even if it's distorted by the way the corner of his mouth is still swollen. The waitress comes by to refill his coffee, and Joe asks for a cup of nothing but ice. But he still looks almost dreamy, vague. "Decided to stay. I'd set down some roots in town," he explains, quietly. "Sailed around the Gulf already, down to Panama, then up the west coast of Mexico to here. Long, long ways. What about you? Why you here?"

Vic tips her chin at the damage to his face. "Regretting that decision? Because it looks like you went a couple rounds with one of those black bears you mentioned earlier." Her pancakes and bacon are set down and she slathers the former in butter and syrup.

As to his question, she shrugs vaguely. "Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. Had a line on a job down here so hitched my trailer up to my truck and made the drive."

The grin broadens at that, until it catches and goes lopsided on the bruising. Then his hand rises, and Joe touches the puffed flesh, gingerly. "Nah. This looks worse'n it is, and I still heal quick. Just a li'l disagreement is all." ....little? Like that? Apparently it's not a big fight until he's comatose. "What is it you do?"

"If that's how you look after a little disagreement, pal, learn how to raise your hands and keep your face protected, for fuck's sake." She laughs and digs into her food, not shy about eating, and clearly very hungry. She hasn't had any coke in a few days and her appetite has returned.

"Just a bartender. Let's me move around as I feel like it, because I can always find jobs. And my 'house' is an airstream trailer, so it comes with me. Like your boat, with less seasickness."

Joe's still only poking at his soup, bit by bit. And when the waitress returns with the cup of ice, he gets down from his stool to go rummaging in the black briefbag set at his feet. What he comes out with, absurdly, is an old-fashioned ice bag. He pours the ice into it, and presses it to his cheek.

"That sounds like it'd be fun, 'f you like the wanderin' life," he agrees, once he's resettled. "Yeah. It's nice to live in land a bit, set my own pace. I'm retired, pretty much." He doesn't look lke he's old enough to be, but...

"Retired? What's your secret then, because you don't look 65 to me," Vic asks with another faint smirk, between swallowing mouthfuls of pancake, and washing it down with coffee. She gives him a more assessing look, trying to determine just how wealthy he is if he's retired and has a sailboat at his age.

Fiftysomething, maybe - his has not been the kind of life that lets one keep a baby-face past middle age; the young man's prettiness faded into that austere regularity. "I was Navy. Medical discharge few years back after an accident. Got my pension, got a little money from other sources....and I sold my house, bought a boat, an' took off." Joe's voice is lazily matter of fact.

"Huh, Navy eh? My dad was Army. Guess those other sources were lucrative because my dad's pension still has him owning a bar to make ends meet in his retirement," Vic points out. Which begs the question why is she bartending here and not at her father's bar.

The sailor bobs his head in agreement, and then flinches. More ice. "Good investments while I was in," he explains. "Some inheritance from distant kin. This an' that. And my house accumulated a lot of value while I had it, so I got a nice chunk of change at its sale." He doesn't dress like a wealthy man, at least. But then, plain jeans and shirt make it hard to tell. "How long was he in? Where'd he serve? 'Nam? My dad was in 'nam."

"He enlisted in 1970. Was in campaigns in Cambodia, Vietnam, Korea, Lebanon, Honduras, Persian Gulf. He came home after Desert Storm in Iraq," Vic drains her coffee and holds up the mug to signal the waitress for more. "My mother died of Leukemia when I was eight, so he was in 21 years before he had to leave."

"In just over twentyfive, myself," Joe says, quietly. "Just missed the Gulf War. But I was there in Bosnia, all that. Afghanistan." He sets down the ice bag, picks up his own coffee cup, takes a sip. His expression is a little wistful. For all Gray Harbor's compensations....he still misses that life. "That's hard. I'm sorry about your mother."

Vic doesn't seem overly emotional about it. Her words are flat and monotone when she talks about her mother. "My dad was a great dad though, so I'm glad he came home. Taught me to drive, to hunt, put me in martial arts and sports. He made me tougher, and self-sufficient." She does smile a little at that memory.

That smile returns, if smaller. "My dad was a pretty great dad, too. He taught me to hunt, too. And fish and sail. I'm lucky he's still around. My parents had kids real young, so he's only twenty years older'n me, and in good shape, thank God."

He finally finishes the soup, shoves the plate aside. "I realize....I haven't introduced myself." A long hand extended towards her, callused from rope and wheel. "I'm Joe. Joe Cavanaugh."

"My dad was a bit older when I was born. I'm guessing all the deployments made it tough on baby-making. They had me when he was 30." She finishes off her pancakes and starts in on the bacon. She waves a piece at him as she ponders. "Cavanaugh. Any relation to the guy who wrote Martian Dawn?"

And then she seems to think he's worthy of knowing her name as well. "Vic Grey." She shakes his hand and her grip is strong and equally callused. This is not the handshake of a career bartender.

The way he goes still at that question...and then blushes a little, absurdly, is answer enough, even before he allows, sheepish, "That's me, matter of fact. I do still write, too. Just slowly, these days."

Then that grin again, dazzlingly bright. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Grey," he says. Joe's still pink, where he isn't blue, purple, or nearly-black.

Vic looks mildly amused at the blushing, and she gives him a broader grin, more feral. Getting reactions seems to please her to no end. It's that predatory glint in her eyes again. "Is that a blush? I didn't know Navy guys could even do that. Air Force sure, but Navy? I thought you were all tougher than that," she points out, then chomps some bacon. She also gives one of the wooden bears a dirty look, feeling like it's watching her, or is a harbinger of doom.

Joe's laugh is a little rusty. "Some of us are. Not me, though. I wasn't no SEAL or nothin'," he allows, amused. "I don't claim to be real tough." Not sober, anyhow. Still nursing his coffee, and eyeing the pie case with a speculative expression. The waitress swoops by to refill, and he orders a piece of lemon meringue. The pink is only beginning to fade.

"Make that two," Vic calls to the waitress, adding pie to her order as she sips her refreshed cup of coffee. "So, Joe, you gonna write more Sci-Fi? I liked that book." She notes with a slight glint of sincerity in her tone.

The Grizzly Den, importunate bear paraphenalia and all, is one of the more common watering holes for the local cops. So it's probably no surprise when not one, but two of them amble on in, mid-stream on a discussion about, "Hollandaise. I'm going home for the hollandaise, get it?" That's Moretti, a big black guy who looks to be a Sergeant in the force. He's chortling at the punchline to his own joke, while the sturdy, but considerably less impressive - both in build and stature - Hispanic fellow just squints at his buddy like he's trying to figure out whether he can shove him down some stairs and call it a day.

"Ten-seven, copy," murmurs the Captain into his radio.

Then Moretti, "Get it? Because she promised to make eggs benedict. Hollandaise, eggs benny?"

"Coffee, please," grunts de la Vega, sliding another disgusted look the Sergeant's way.

"Workin' on a sequel to Dawn," he says, pleasedly. "It was well enough received that the publisher wants more. Might be a whole series, in time. I got a few more ideas to hash out, y'know?"

So, the problem with Joe trying to pass for straight is that he's a hundred percent garbage at hiding how his eyes light up when de la Vega appears. Oh, his manner is cool enough - only a hand lifted in greeting. "Hey, de la Vega," he says, mildly. They're at the counter, and he's got an empty soup bowl before him...as well as one of those old-style rubber ice bags. Still a tapestry of bruises.

Then Joe has to go and say those foreboding words "de la Vega" and it's like someone walked across Vic's grave. Her spine stiffens, her eyes narrow, her lips form a contemplative pout and she turns her head ever-so-slowly to rest her cool gaze on Ruiz. If she's put two and two together from Joseph's expression, it doesn't show. The little dig on her lips might indicate she has though. "Javi. Are you stalking me or something?"

There's a crackle of the captain's radio in response, and once he's received the confirmation, he turns it down and pops out his earpiece. A lean's taken against the counter while the waitress fills his order, and her lingering glance fetches a wink in response. Moretti digs out his phone, rolling his eyes at his partner's utter lack of a sense of humour, and pitches toward the server's departing back, "Couple of waffles too, por favor." Yes, he mangles the Spanish horribly.

"Cavanaugh," is pitched toward the tall blond in a low murmur, and only very belatedly accompanied by a shift of dark eyes to blue. A beat, and then, "How's your face?" For Vic, none of the f-bomb laced derisiveness he'd normally favour her with while off duty. Simply, "I think if I was, you wouldn't know it," in a bemused rumble accompanied by a slivering of those dark eyes, and then a gracias for the waitress as his coffee's slid over.

So, the sound effect for Vic greeting Javier like that....it should be a big record scratch. Joe's eyes widen, for a moment, and he asks her, bluntly, "You know de la Vega?" Clearly, she does. "How's that?" Looking between them, expectantly.

To the question, a shrug, "Doin' better." And then he can't help but add, with a flash of brows, "You should see the other guy."

He adds, "Man was a sniper in the Marines. You don't ever see them comin', they don't want you to." A bob of his head, for emphasis, followed by a wince.

"Oh, Javier and I go way back. All the way to Portland, don't we?" The latter Vic directs at the cop with that feral grin of hers. She then rolls those blue eyes Joe's way. "He was a marine a long time ago. Lot of water under that bridge since then."

The other guy's got a fading bruise of his own decorating his jaw, truth be told. Nowhere near so florid as Joe's, but it certainly got a snicker out of Moretti when they started their shift this morning. "Something like that," murmurs de la Vega, his gaze finding Vic's just for a moment, then shifting back to his coffee as he takes a sip. His body language screams don't start this here even if his tone is cool and unconcerned. Moretti beams a wide grin at Joe, claps him on the shoulder. "You know what's real funny?" He gestures to his own face. "Pretty sure you weren't wearing those when you showed up at the station last night."

There's a dart of that blue gaze from Vic to Ruiz and then back. Joe's curious as a cat, and it's only the cop's body language that keeps him from launching into a stream of questions. He knows that look. "That's true," he allows. "I knew him when I was in the Navy an' he was in the Marines. Stationed in a few of the same places, y'know." Voice mild as milk. "But that was a long damn time ago."

He nods at Moretti, affably....and says nothing at all. Expression innocent as a new lamb.

"Is that so?" Vic asks Joe, her expression pure innocence, if innocence had devil horns holding her halo up. She sips her coffee as their pie gets delivered, and she sets into it like a starving animal. "Known each other that long? Or just reconnecting?"

The distinctive 1964 red Mustang pulls up outside the Grizzly Den, and out from it emerges Tor Lockhart. Which is not unexpected, as the car has been driven by one Lockhart or another for the last thirty years. He shoulders open the door and fingers through his hair, dropping to sit at the counter without looking around first. "Coffeecoffeecoffee," he says to the passing server, with a flash of a grin that'd be more charming if he got a haircut.

At the counter already is a tall blond (Joe), a tall brunette (Vic), and a couple of uniformed cops; one of them tall (Moretti) and one of them not (Ruiz). The latter has his face in a cup of coffee, brow creased in what could be either irritation or thoughtfulness. "Reconnecting," he answers Vic in a low voice, watching as his partner's waffles are delivered, and the big guy promptly forgets about his prodding of the ex-aviator. "You two friends?" A glance between Joe and Vic, his gaze sharp.

"We lost touch for a while," Joe says, more slowly. "After time in Afghanistan, at the beginnin' of that war. Ran into him here a few months ago, not long after I got to town." He takes a bite of pie, absented....and then is recalled to both attention and appetite by the taste. A few more, and he adds, to Moretti, "No, jus' met the lady there a few minutes ago. We been talkin'." Another glance for Ruiz, but he doesn't prod the Captain.

Then Tor shows up, and he grins, "Hey there, gunslinger. How's it goin'?"

"Lockhart," Vic greets Tor. "It's just like I'm living that night all over again. Bears and all," she grunts. Her phone buzzes and she tugs it out of her back pocket to glance at a text. "Joe's my new BFF and a favorite author." She looks over at the sailor. "Guard my pie, Joe, I have to take a call." She slides off the stool, shoots Ruiz a look, and heads for the door to make the call outside and away from the ears of the pair of cops of course.

The only reason Tor gets a cup of coffee in good order is that he looks roughly the same age as the server and she seems to know him. High school connections apparently mean you get coffee in a reasonable amount of time? Won't help him with his food coming up, though. Speaking of, he orders a cheeseburger and fries. Then he looks down the bar when he hears his name. And sees cops. A toothy smile appears. "Howdy," he tips an invisible hat to Joe. "Everyone in one piece today?" He slurps from his black cup once it arrives.

In one piece is relative, of course, and de la Vega's got nothing to offer on that score. Just a look aimed Tor's way that lingers a beat more than it ought, for someone only passingly familiar. And then he's back to his coffee and his phone conversation. Not so much as a grunt offered Vic's way as she gives him that look in passing.

"Bears and all?" Joe can't help but ask, cocking a look at Tor. Then Vic's eeling away to go take a call, and the sailor shrugs. "A'right," he agrees, before working on his own. A shrug. "Close enough." Nevermind the bruises on the left side of his face, temple to jaw.

A flicker of something, like he's just dying to goad de la Vega....and thinking the better of it. Then his phone's going off, and he pulls it out of his bag, answers a text. Grinning a little.

It's not a long call, and before too long, Vic returns. She clearly stopped by her truck though, because she has something in her hand – a faded once-black, now greyish tee. She throws it at De la Vega with a grin. "I washed it and everything," she notes with a smirk. Also she TK'd her blood out of it. She slides back onto her counter stool and sets back into her pie.

If Tor notices the lingering side-eye from Ruiz, he doesn't acknowledge it, except with lazy hooded eyes and relaxed posture. He looks up as Vic re-emerges. "Is the patch job holding? Never patched up deathbear wounds before. No weird boils?"

Okay, now he can't resist. There's a look darted between Vic and Ruiz, as she hands off that shirt. But then he's looking down to his phone again, tapping something out.

Only to pause at Tor's question - now the bewildered gaze goes between the healer and Vic. "Deathbear. Big damn thing with a skull head, and a human voice?"

Ooh, looks like he's met Homerton, too.

"I've developed a definite craving for some honey and maple syrup, but other than that, I don't seem to have caught anything permanent from that thing. Patch job is holding fine, thanks," Vic tells Tor. Joe can attest that she drowned her pancakes in syrup earlier.

She blinks over at Joe a few times and lowers her voice. "Shit, you ran into that fucking thing too? It didn't talk to me but yeah, it was covered in sores where its fur was gone. Clawed me from shoulder to hip."

"I didn't see it. Just, y'know..." Tor twiddles his fingers Vic-wards. "...after she did. Aw, yeeeeah." That second bit is because his cheeseburger and fries comes up. He slides it over and proceeds to douse his fries in vinegar. "Don't want to see it either. Sounds like a fucker."

Joe's gone pale - the bruises are all the more vivid by contrast - and he seems to have utterly forgotten his pie. "Yeah," he says, just as quietly. "On the other side. I was lucky, it wasn't hungry. Turns out it likes music. Next time you see it, try singin' to it." He is apparently dead serious. "Well, assumin' you see it again. I hope you don't. Hope I don't, for that matter - I haven't been that goddamned scared since Afghanistan."

"I climbed a tree, so it knocked the damned thing down," Vic mutters. If the door she'd opened prior had closed by then, or the bear came through it with her, she probably wouldn't be enjoying lemon meringue pie in the diner of someone with a clear bear fetish. "If I see that fucker again I'm going to shoot it repeatedly until it decides I'm not edible," she points out with a scowl, stabbing her fork into her pie. She tips her head towards Tor. "He patched me up, did a good job, for a fee."

"Hey, boy's gotta make a living," says Tor. And he's low man in Felix's operation and delivers pizza and drives for Uber for a steadier income. And lives in Huckleberry. He's not exactly rolling in cash. "Gotta get my cheeseburger money somewhere." Speaking of. he takes a big bite. "I've seen worse than plague bears. But then, I grew up here."

"I wonder if bullets even work on it," Joe's voice is musing. "I didn't have a firearm at the time. Just a bow, and I wasn't about to try stickin' that thing with a target head and piss it off. Not when it was right in my face."

Then he's looking to Tor, speculatively. "How much you charge for a house call?" he wonders. Assuming there are set rates.

He's still fooling with his phone, looking down and texting, idly.

The cops are engaged in a bit of occasional chitchat, which is mostly the big black guy talking while his surly looking Hispanic partner sips his coffee and fiddles with his phone. No comment whatsoever on zombie bears, and the tossed tee shirt gains merely a flick of de la Vega's eyes up to the brunette before they travel back to his screen. "Thanks," is his curt mutter, while Moretti's busy choking to death on his waffle.

"You grew up here? Why the fuck did you stay?" Vic asks, incredulously, staring at Tor like he's grown a second head. Moretti choking on his waffle has her grinning though. Desired effect achieved. Ruiz will be getting pestered with a zillion questions for the rest of his shift. Glorious.

"Depends on how bad it is. Depends if I'm in danger getting there. Depends how bad shit is." Tor shrugs, pops a fry into his mouth. "Sometimes how fuckin' tired I am and how much of a pain in the ass it'll be to get to you. I don't have a rate card, man." A shrug. "But I charged her three hundred. Hundred bucks to show up, no promises. Cause this shit ain't an exact science. Another two hundred if it worked." Then to Vic, "Cause I grew up here. And my memory'd probably be Swiss cheese if I left."

The sailor blows out a breath, at that. "Good to know," he says. "Good to know." Still playing with his phone. The questions have already begun. "You know anything 'bout the Asylum?" he wonders, bluntly. No mincing words.

Vic shakes her head at Joe. That's a new one to her. "I'm guessing you aren't talking about one of the State Hospitals?" she asks. "So that's new to me. What's it all about?" She sips her black coffee and eyes the sailor with a glint of curiosity.

"I assume you're referring to the fuckin' nightmare version and not..." Tor snap-points at Vic as she echoes his thought. "Heard of it. Never been near it. Thank fuck." He picks up a fry but doesn't immediately pop it in his mouth. "Knew a kid in high school who got sent there and never came back. Just 'Upstate' after he knocked this jock out with his Glimmer and nearly set him on fire with one of those science class burner things."

Joe nods, at that. "Yeah," he says, mildly. "It's over there. Not really in this world at all, near as I can make out." His expression has gone still, almost fixed....but the blue eyes are weary, haunted. "Patients are those who shine."

"Well that just makes me tickled pink to have moved down here," Vic grouses with a cranky expression, like her coffee has turned sour on her. "I was told to avoid the sawmill, anywhere else I should steer clear of?" she asks the two men.

"Yeah. The whole goddamn town." Tor smiles toothily. "Seriously. We'd need a whole wiki to catalogue all the shit around here and all the places you should avoid. And it changes on the daily." The young man seems surprisingly chill about it. But then, it has been his reality his entire life. Also he smokes a lot of weed.

"Nowhere's really safe," Joe says, and his voice has gone gentle. "I mean, as far as I can tell." Then he's digging out his wallet, taking care of his bill, and leaving a generous tip. But then, he got decent service here, of all places, and that's very much to be encouraged, to his mind. "Miss Grey, pleasure to meetcha. Good to see you," That last for Tor....then he's clapping Ruiz on the shoulder, snagging his briefbag, and heading for the door. He's still got that uneasy look.

"See you around, Joe! Let me know when that book is coming out!" Vic calls after him with a frown. Not for him, for whatever Felix got her into sending her to this damned town. She knows the boss doesn't Glimmer, and doesn't have a fucking clue about anything related to it. She sighs and goes back to the last bits of her pie. "So you live in the trailer park?" she asks Tor.

"Yeah. Didn't used to. Well. I grew up there. But then I moved out for a couple years. But then my ma moved into town with her boyfriend and gave me her trailer. So I came back." Cause hey, free trailer. He watches haunted Joe go, but doesn't comment. "Why the hell're you here anyway? Or why do you stay I guess is the bigger question."

"Work," Vic replies, giving a pair of raised brows to the kid. "I think we have the same boss." She pushes her empty plate aside and sips the last of her coffee slowly. "I'm at Huckleberry too. That shiny silver airstream in slot 44. You are probably gonna get a few calls from me for your services, so, consider it a heads up."

"Ah-hah," says Tor. He bites his cheeseburger and considers her, then wipes a bit of ketchup off his lip. He eyes the cops down the way. "I'm 16. Bright yellow one." One of the trailers that have been there so long it's got a patio attached. "Planning on wrestling more demon bears? Or just human bears?"

"I'll wrestle whatever Joey Kelly points me at. Here to make sure he stays in one piece. You?" Vic asks. Felix gave her an overview but she likes to hear things from the actual criminals themselves.

"I drive. Gopher. Backup on runs and shit." Lowbie stuff. "But mostly I relocate acquired items." So Tor's a fence. And a thief. He finishes what he wants of the burger and nudges the plate away. "If you ever want some real good pizza? Call up Pizza Kitchen and say you work for F-Bomb and we'll give you a hella good deal." A beat, "...as long as you promise to never tell him we call him that."

Vic snorts and gives Tor a grin. "F-bomb? Really? Your secret is safe with me as long as I get that discount pizza. Drop by for a beer if you're bored." She fishes out some bills from her front pocket and sets enough on the counter for her meal and a decent tip. "I got to get to the day job though, over at Two if By Sea." She gives Ruiz a brow arch as she passes, and winks at his partner, before she heads out to her beefy looking pickup.