2020-05-14 - The Ghost With The Most

It's late on a slow Thursday night at TiBS, or is that a slow Friday morning, since it's after midnight. Most people have work in the morning, so it's only the regulars and the alcoholics lingering with those who have odd schedules. Vic is behind the bar in a belly-hearing cropped tee and worn jeans, with tactical boots, and a hoodie thrown over the shirt but left open. She tends to always cover her back, because it's her least attractive body part, being that it's covered in scars.

She is currently pouring cheap whiskey for some guy who's been ogling her rack (an admittedly nice one, mind you). He ordered a Manhattan. Fuck him.

Easton isn't working tonight, he's been in the office working on some numbers and reviewing paperwork for the casino opening, doing some due diligence before the grand opening. Finally he checks the time and groans, rubbing at his eyes. He needs a break and a drink. He heads out into the dining room, dressed in an oversized fraying Cornell hoodie over jeans. He sidles up to the bar and gives Vic a big grin. "Hey. Can I get a dark and stormy?" There is a mischievous glint in his eye, it says yes I am testing you, do you love it?

Joey wades in the door. He doesn't walk like he's on business, and as ever his business is his own and he's content to keep it that way. There's a guy with his phone not looking and abut to walk into Joey. The boxer plants his feet at the incredulous fuckup and and damn if that's some bad luck, but that phone flies out of his hand and across the floor of the bar in the other direction. Fucker.

Is Joey even aware it happened? Who the fuck knows. People drop shit all the time and that he has a field of entropy for stupid seems only karmic in its application. Catching up to Easton he mumbles, "Yeah, I mean I'm right here. Ya coulda texted."

A brow slooooowly slides upwards, arching at Easton, as Vic looks at him and his obvious test. "You want it with or without lime juice? I think it's too sweet without it, but your call." She shrugs and sets a highball glass on the counter top. Yes, she knows how to mix drinks. She's been in her dad's bar since she was eight years old. Clearly she just doesn't give a fuck about these customers unless they are Joey, Easton, or a few select people. Rando dudes staring at her tits? They get cheap shit.

She grabs a bottle of dark rum off the back shelf and pours it over ice, then adds ginger beer, looking at Easton expectantly in regards to the addition of lime. Her eyes slide over to Joey and she quirks a grin at the flying cellphone. "Guinness?" she asks her other boss.

Easton looks pleased as punch when Vic quirks an eyebrow at him. And then when she asks about the lime he's about to respond when Joey takes a seat next to him. He deflates a little. This game would have been much more fun had Vic not known that Joey and Easton had chatted and he was on board with the plan. But here's Joey. "Really? I don't think you're broody enough for that." Easton says of ordering Joey as a Dark and Stormy. He turns back to Vic and says, "Oh, however you recommend." He waits for her to make the drink before saying, "Oh, so now I'm confused. Yer not incapable, just willfully useless? See that's worse." He shakes his head and says, "I need customers to get what they order because then they come back and that makes me more money. Do you think you can handle that?"

He pointedly doesn't look at Joey during this little chat.

Joey gives Easton a flat stare. Finally he responds, "Take away my toys and see what happens." Now Joey is a lot of things, and many of those also terrible things, true, but what e is not is disrespectful to a fellow businessman. Pointedly not the one that has the bar with the tater tots..

...yeah yeah he respect him too, but this aint' about that.

Looking up to Vic and having a seat he ponders that and nods. "Guinness. Rochester Mills., or Rogue Brown Ale. So long as it's darker than my coffee. Thanks." Feet pick up to rest on the bar. For the rest of the employee coaching session he stays silent. THis is his business she's fucking with, not his own. He's got no horse in this one.

Itzhak wanders in, with an air like he's at the end of a very long walk. Hands in the pockets of his tight, soft jeans, he pushes the door open with a shoulder, looks at Joey and Easton and Vic, and hesitates. The expression he makes isn't sure if it's welcome, maybe this is a thing happening? "Uhh, hey," he says, almost suggests.

Vic adds some lime juice and a lime wedge to the Dark and Stormy, sticks a stirrer in the glass, and sets it in front of Easton with a smirk, that becomes a feral grin. "It's their punishment for either willful stupidity, or staring at my tits. I could probably serve the stupid ones, but it's not like they know the difference. Would you rather I punch the ones staring at my tits? Or not until they stare at your girlfriends'?"

Joey's drink gets poured and set on a coaster in front of him with a napkin and everything. He's the one seeing she gets paid a lot more than her tips. "Want some tots?" she adds, because tots.

August comes in a bit after Itzhak, looking like he could use some sleep. Maybe a lot of sleep, with the dark circles he's sporting. There's a fresh scratch on his neck, and his hair has that 'assaulted by a tree' look the guys and galls all love or envy. His clothes seemed to have been spared, at least; plaid flannel and jeans aren't torn. He's maybe too tired to notice, or care, about whatever's happening between Joey, Easton, and Vic. TiBS is open, he's going inside and getting a beer. Or five. Ignorance sure is bliss.

"Hey," he asides to Itzhak, managing a wane smile for him as he heads for the bar.

Glancing over at Itzhak when he comes in Easton up nods at him. The bar is nearly empty at this point, it's after midnight and still the off season. Easton indicates a seat to Rosencratz before turning back to Vic and tilting his head, "Oh wah, you have great tits, that must be awful. Why the fuck do you think you're still getting tipped? I would rather that you manage to at least pretend like you belong behind the bar so I don't have to explain why you are here. No one wants me having to explain it. So either figure your shit out, or you can go join Jose in the kitchen washing dishes. He's promised to walk you through it real slow." Easton's not yelling but he definitely is using his Marine voice, even if he doesn't mean to.

He takes a drink of the Dark and Stormy and winces before handing it to Itzhak, "Here." He then turns back to Vic and says, "And I'll have whatever beer you pour for him" He indicates Joey, "And some tots too. Please." He's polite. His voice now has shifted back to the 'fun drunk bar owner' that he's trying hard to play.

Joey replied to Vic deadpan, and reasonably sounding as one can, "I'm refraining from commenting on your tots because I like my beer in the glass and not in my lap." Looking at the arrivals he greets, "Sup Roz. Roen." Back to Vic he says, sincerely as a confession, "I would love some tater tots too, thanks"

Looking to Easton he waits til he's done and follows up, "Hey." There we go. Looking back to Roen he asks, "Not to pry into your goddamn social life but you look like you wrestled a bear, man. Not the fun kind neither. The hell's going on at work? Squirrels unionize or something?"

"Hey." Itzhak hikes his eyebrows at August. "Insomnia crew, huh? You look like hell." Ahhh, always refreshingly honest, this guy. Easton hands him the drink and he eyes him for giving it to him after he makes that face, but sips. "...Dark and Stormy? Not bad. I like it with a lot of lime." Now Easton is talking to Vic in Marine Voice (a voice Itzhak is more and more familiar with, these days), and he looks at Vic with interest, like, ooooh what'd you do to get that voice? Like a cat very interested in why the dog is getting yelled at, he is. "Kelly, 'ey." Joey gets saluted with the drink, and now he's looking at August again, expecting an answer, or possibly an entertaining evasion.

Vic rolls her eyes at Easton's words and ripostes with former-cop-voice. "What are you, a fucking caveman? How about if they stare at my tits, YOU ask them nicely not to? We'll see how well that goes over," she says in a flat tone. She pours another Guinness for the man and sets it in front of him with a scowl that looks about as friendly as a rabid badger. She calls back the tots order to the kitchen and wipes her hands on a bar rag.

She eyes August and Itzhak as they approach and tips her chin to the former, since the latter has his drink, a silent question about his poison of choice tonight.

August watches Vic get her dressing down, and since she's actually used body language to ask him what he wants, refrains from a wry smile. Almost; his mouth twitches a bit. He seems to be debating, maybe between hard and harder liquor, finally shakes his head. "Lager," he says. "Whatever's decent."

He does smile at Joey and Itzhak's very accurate description of his current state. "I wish it had been a bear, or work. Work was just," he runs a hand over his hair, "work. Trees are still getting out of line, no idea what the fuck's going on with that. No, it's just..." He stares at the floor a second, still, then shrugs. "More of Their bullshit, is all." He eases onto a barstool. "Squirrels would have been just fine," he says with a bob of his eyebrows.

"Oh for fuck's sake are you really going to make this about your breasts? You are dick to even the nicest customer and you screw up ladies drinks just as much if not more because they're less likely to order whiskey or beer. You want to cry about getting harassed, it'd help if you even gave people a chance to harass you first. Sides, Tina's dumped plenty of drinks on idiots heads without hearing a peep from me."

Easton's distracted from his grousing by August, who does in fact look like crap. At the line about 'their' bullshit he smirks, "Right? Fuck trees." As if they were who August was referring to. But the smile dies on his face when he sees the latest 'person' sidle up to the bar.

William "The Ghoul" Gohl is back mother fuckers.

With a smile and crazy look in his eye he greets Easton with nod, "Chuck" before trying to flag down Vic, "Hey toots! Can I get a dri-"

A gunshot in an enclosed space is way louder than you might expect. The fact that the large window behind Gohl shatters into a million pieces doesn't help with the noise. And there is Easton standing up and pointing at the seemingly unphased ghost of William Gohl who simply finishes asking, "Can I get a beer now? Or did you want to break a few more windows?"

Let's be perfectly honest the last person who is going to get excited about guns is the guy in the room that probably has them pointed at him possibly the most. This isn't to say this fails to leave an impression on him. With one even move he turns and drinks a sizable abount of his beer sitting on the stool. It's a good swig dammit. By the time he's turned back around he hand his hand touching iron at his lower back under the coat ready to draw. (Yes, Ruiz, it totally violates his warranty as an ex-con). He's keeping himself in thin profile trying to assess- Yeah.

he doesn't know who he is but it does make him sigh and take his hand off his pistol and take the beer up again. "Fuckin ghosts man. Who you here to haunt?" Look when you live with a ghost this part ain't new. The gun absolutely sealed his attention though.

Itzhak shifts, turning, looking at Gohl with that curious blank expression he gets when he's sure he's supposed to recognize somebody. Where does he know this guy from? ...Wait. He's transparent. Itzhak's eyebrows go up--and then there's the CRACK of the gunshot and Itzhak grabs August and shoves him to the floor, dives after him and crouches over him mantling like a hawk. He can't give anyone his armor anymore, which just means he's now got to protect people with himself, like a tank should.

Vic pours August a Negra Modelo which is allegedly one of the better lagers of the year. Then Easton has to go and snap back at her. She picks up said Modelo and is ABOUT to dump it on her alleged boss' head when there's some guy calling her toots like it's Guys and Dolls in here or something, and a shattering window. A moment later the Modelo is in front of Roen and she's following Easton's lead, TK-ing the shotgun from under the bar into her hands. "What the fuck are we shooting at?!" she barks at Marshall. She looks like she knows how to use the weapon at least. CHA-CHUNK goes the shotgun as it's racked and leveled in the direction of the old-time speechy, translucent guy at the bar.

The latest patron to waltz into this fine establishment is none other than the police captain of this backwater little town. He's off duty, of course; the ballcap, tee shirt and jeans make that abundantly clear. But the trouble with cops, is an off duty cop is still a cop. And as such, he goes from needing a drink, to dealing with a potential active shooter in about two point five seconds flat. His own weapon is reached for under his jacket, and a quick assessment made of the relative positions of those scattered about the room. It takes him a moment, and only after he's thumbed off the safety on his pistol and dropped a round into the chamber to realise that it's Easton with the gun, and.. is that Billy?.. "Marshall, what the fuck is going on?"

August is tired enough that he's about to echo Easton's 'fuck trees' except it's going to be 'fuck weed', which will just lead to questions absolutely no one wants him to answer. That doesn't happen, though, because his gaze track's Easton's, and he finds himself staring at...Gohl.

But it can't be Gohl. Can it?

He's too exhausted to react quicker than a Marine bar tender with a gun under the counter or an ex-con who is determined to make sure he doesn't get shot, so in short order he's on the floor and covered by Itzhak, and all he can get out is a grunt. His initial assumption ('jesus fuck another Dream') isn't helped by how nothing happens to Gohl, or the part where Gohl's all translucent, nor the sound of shattering glass. The floor under August creaks dangerously, and he grits his teeth against the gut reaction to cave it in under Gohl, straight down to hell if he can manage it.

From the floor comes the sound of his Itzhak-muffled voice. "Hey Billy. How's it hanging."

"There's no need to throw such a tizzy. I just wanted to drop by for a drink. I guess I'll just come back later when everyone's in a better mood." Billy grins and slowly fades away, as if dissolving into the air and being sucked out the now open window.

Easton continues to standing with his legs perfect splayed at shoulder width, his knees slightly bent, both his hands on the pistol, one cupped underneath in a classic shooting stance. He doesn't relax as Gohl fades out of view, his breathing tight and fast. He stares at the spot intently, not hearing anything. He misses Vic racking the shotgun, and Ruiz asking him what's going on. He just keeps staring at the spot as if waiting for him to come back. His face is stony, focused.

Eventually he blinks and realizes that there are customers fleeing out the door and others wondering what the hell is going on. He sighs and sets down the pistol on the bar and only then realizes others are asking him questions, "What? .. De La Vega?"

Joey is just drinking a beer and is absolutely not packing an unregistered pistol. Nope. Noooope. Nothing to see here, officer. "There was a spider." Because sure Joey's not going to break stride now. He did three days ago, but three days ago it was his niece in danger and nothing. Staring at Ruiz he says in a tired calm, "It's gone now. Patron?" He sits back down and doesn't even ask about the ghost becuase then he'll know and dammit it's almost 1 am. He opens in 4 hours.

Itzhak has gone so far as to cram August between his not-so-bulky body and the bar. He's breathing fast and harsh, wide-eyed, the sense of his Song (silent music, roaring like a calving iceberg) surging in him, running high. Someone isn't going to get to sleep for the next twenty hours. He cranes to see Ruiz, hearing him, between the legs of the barstools, and mutters a Yiddish word when he catches sight of him: krasavets. But far from having Joey's puissance, he's not fond of ghosts and knows there's guns, can hear their menacing hum. "That was him," he hisses under his breath, kind of easing away from August. "It was Gohl, wasn't it?"

As the ghost disperses, Vic frowns and presses her thumb into the ejection port of the Mossberg 500 to pop out the slugs she'd racked. Then she presses the shell stop until all the rounds are out again and the weapon is unloaded. It takes her a matter of seconds. "Well, so much for my tips tonight," she mutters, giving Easton a look for chasing off the customers.

There's a quick cataloguing done in the sweep of the cop's dark eyes; Itzhak over there on the floor, atop Roen. Easton finally relinquishing his gun, Joey and the unregistered firearm he knows nothing and everything about. And of course, that foul-mouthed excuse for a drink slinger, who gets a furrowed brow as Ruiz shoves his own gun back into its holster. "Might want to.." There's a hitch of his chin for Easton's weapon, still sitting in plain sight, as he rolls up to the bar. Then drops into a crouch to offer Itzhak a hand up. "Patron," is both request and response, since Joey's offering.

And just like that, Billy's gone. August stares at the spot the Ghoul's not-totally-solid self had just been occupying. "Yeah," he murmurs. "That was him." In some ways, Itzhak's reaction is a good thing; it lets August focus on anything other than his last couple of sleep-poor nights. He reaches out, grips one of Itzhak's arms. "It's okay. I think he's just a ghost." Just. "A memory. The bar's memory. Not...him." Not the guy Itzhak trapped in a violin case, not the guy they all shed emotional blood for.

"I'm fine," he adds. "Come on, let me up. Let's have a beer, see about that window." Is August going to repair the window? Maybe. (Yes.) Once the patrons are gone, anyways. "Get the glass clear so no one grinds it into the floor." He bobs his eyebrows at Ruiz from his vantage point behind Itzhak, mashed up against the bar, expression pure distilled 'fancy seeing you down here'. "I appreciate the quick reflexes, Marshall," he calls up towards Easton. "Even if there's probably going to be a thing in the paper tomorrow about guns under the counter."

Easton's jaw flexes as he tries to force himself to get his breathing back under control and get back to whitty quips like Joey, to put that facade of carefree bar owner back on. But it's just not happening. He's barely relaxed even a moment. He puts out a hand and bottle of Knob Creek appears and is pulled right to his hand. Easton uncorks the bottle and takes a drink before asking, "Glass?" of Vic. He's not thinking about his gun that's sitting on the bar, and he's only mildly aware of his surroundings.

Easton finally blows out a breath and looks over at August and shrugs, "Fuck it. I don't care." His voice a harder than he means it to be. He hasn't snapped back to reality yet, his eyes still moving back to the chair where Gohl appeared.

Vic sets the Mossy under the bar again, pocketing the shells for the moment in her hoodie, she'll reload it later. She nods to Ruiz with a similarly furrowed brow as she carefully picks up Easton's pistol and ensures the safety is on, before shoving it down the back of her jeans for safekeeping until the man is back on an even keel. The whole bottle of patron and a bunch of glasses come out, and she sets them up on the bar, filling them for those still there. They could all use some tequila right about now. She idly flicks her fingers towards the main doors and locks them after the last of the freaked-out patrons departs. Best to keep unaware customers out til the glass is cleaned up at least.

Joey is buying tequila for the off-duty but never done Captain. Is it payment for ignoring what was not exactly flashed in public? Look maybe it's late and everyone's over caffeinated and he wants to buy his best frenemy a damn drink. People look too into shit. Except the ghost. They're usually pretty hung up on one thing. he takes a glass, leans over the bar and gets the scoop to put some ice in there to get the chill on and sits back down. Glancing back to August and Itz... yeah they busy. Looking back to Ruiz he says, "So that one of Easton's ex's ignoring some sort of restraining order or what? "

Itzhak takes Ruiz's hand, pulls himself out from under the bar, gives August a hand in his turn. "...sorry, pal," he says to August, kinda sheepishly, like he totally overreacted to gunshots going off or something. He winds an arm around Ruiz, tight, his big ribcage going too fast. Pushing his face into Ruiz's shoulder, he mutters rapidly, "Fuck. Fuck. I shoved him in my fiddle case, I smashed my fucking violin, I never wanted to see his fucking face again."

"Hey," murmurs the scruffy-haired cop when Itzhak starts running at the mouth and burying his face in his shoulder. "..hey, hey. You're fine. It's fine. He's gone now. Toma un respiro, okay?" An arm goes around the fiddler, and he rubs his back even as the Mexican's reaching for the glass Joey's slid over. "Mm-" A big sip and swallow later, "Gracias, amigo." Easton's ex? "I wouldn't call him that in earshot of the guy, no." Marshall gets a slanted look from de la Vega, but he's not budging from Itzhak's side for the time being. Something's murmured low to the taller man, then, "Anyone have the slightest fucking clue what Billy's doing here?" August gets a look, for some reason. As if he should have all the answers by virtue of being August.

August gets up, shakes his head at the apology. "Nothing to apologize for," he says, and grips Itzhak's shoulder once in reassurance. He turns, takes one of the shots from the bar, knocks it back. Setting the shotglass down, firm though not forceful, he says, "Lager still an option? Not that I mind the idea of getting smashed, just, I was figuring to take it easy."

Fortunately he doesn't have the beer in hand when Joey asks that. He cracks up, half-doubling over. Yeah, someone's way too short on sleep. He wipes at his eyes, cuts Easton an apologetic glance. "That was Billy the Ghoul. The ah...serial killer." He clears his throat, shrugs at Ruiz. "If I knew I'd happily undo it and get his ass out of our lives for all of eternity."

Sucking in a gulp of air Easton tries to come back to the here and now but his mind is spinning on the how and the why and the what the fuck of it all. He hears Joey make a crack about his ex and all he can think about is Tom and the fact that his ghost is gone. And thankfully that causes him to remember what he knows about ghosts and finally he catches back up to what August had to say, "Fuck. It's just a ghost.. like you said Roen." And with that he's able to take another breath, and pour himself a tumbler full of whiskey. He takes a sip and sets it back down, "It doesn't mean fuckall. Just.. a memory."

Easton looks like he's finally coming back around and shakes his head, "Well that was fun and exciting. I'll probably have to tape that up tonight.." He looks at the window as if just now realizing where that cold air is coming from. But since it's basically a patio now, he pulls out a cigarette and lights up.

"Fucking Gohl.."

The exclamation comes out admist a puff of smoke but at least there's less intense I'm going to burn this whole bar down vibes behind it.

Vic spreads out the remaining glasses of tequila, one to each of them, and one for herself, which is tossed back with a deep swallow and a grunt to Ruiz' words. "No fucking clue who that was, but I'm assuming he was already dead?" She is absolutely eyeing the lanky guy pretty much burrowing into the cop's shoulder though, one brow arching slowly as she gives Ruiz a questioning look.

August gets a fresh Modelo on a coaster even. "Anyone wanna fill me in on what the actual fuck just happened?" she asks, looking at each of them in turn with flinty dark blue eyes. As August explains, she just blinks. "I guess I don't know who that is either."

At least it wasn't a diseased mutant skull bear thing. One dose of Homerton was enough for her.

Joey arches an eyebrow as all the lights go on in his proverbial house. "Oh that's the mother fucker that tried to light me up and kill me?" Awwww fucking game on bruh! His teeth set on edge and his eyes narrow. Yeah this one is going to take him to the ledge a bit and he grabs the second glass, refills Ruiz' while Itzhak...gets emotions all over the place and he pours himself a now much needed glass.

"Ghosts ain't a memory. They're people. They stuck. They throw fits and dinette sets and sometimes? Sometimes just want shit to be okay. Now like some definitions of 'okay' are fucked. Let's just agree on that. so Yeah, why's this asshole back if you gave em a nap?"

He turns to Vic and looks confused but not patronizing about it. "Ghosts, Vic. like..." He pauses and looks to Eason confused, "She dunno about ghosts?" Huh. that's new. Looking back to Vic he tries to sum up. "He was alive. Now he ain't. He's still here he's jsut like... not." Thanks for clearing that up, Joey.

Isn't Itzhak just a liability like that? All these emotions. He nods into Ruiz's shoulder, but he's shivering with adrenalized fury. "You know what a dybbuk is?" he mumbles, talking to Vic. "A ghost that Heaven don't want and Hell won't take." Lifting his long-nosed, narrow face, he looks at her, his gray-hazel eyes hard, his arms still around Ruiz because frankly he does not give a fuck at this moment, he needs him.

But he does shift enough to pick up a shot of tequila. Holding it up, he proclaims, "To Billy the Ghoul. May he have a hundred houses, and in each house may he have a hundred beds, and may he get a C. difficile infection and shit in every bed." He jerks his chin to Vic. "Welcome to Gray fukkin' Harbor." And downs the shot. Swallowing, he sucks the liquor off his bottom lip. "We dunno yet, Kelly. But we're gonna fuckin' work on it."

"Very dead," de la Vega confirms, downing the last of his tequila, then nudging his glass over for a refill on it. Which Joey, bro that he is, supplies. "Couple of times over, in fact." Easton's mention of the window draws his attention thataway, mid-sip of his freshly poured drink. A pair of furrowed, considering brows, and, "Maybe Roen can do something about it for you." He probably shouldn't be encouraging the man to fling his Gift around, buuuuut.

Oh, and then there's Itzhak with his toast. That ends in a Yiddish curse wherein Billy winds up with the runs. His face squinches up at the the man still huddled against him, like, what the actual fuck was that? But he raises his glass regardless. Because it's a fucking toast. "Todo el mundo debería creer en algo," he recites in that grumbly murmur of his. Then, "Yo creo que debemos tomar otra copa." And down the hatch it goes.

August eyes the Modelo. Well, it counts. He accepts it with a thank you, pays and tips, takes a swig. "He was an asshole," he explains to Vic, as if this is somehow necessary despite the previous explanation of 'serial killer'. "William Gohl, but they called him Billy the Ghoul. He died a long fucking time ago, but he wound up haunting the town starting in, I guess summer last year. Not the same as this, though. A guy was possessed by him, and Billy was using that guy's," he pauses, eyes Vic, continues, "power to kill people. And Thomas was like me, he was strong, could do it from miles and miles away."

He points the neck of his bottle at Joey. "Yep, that's him. But, I disagree, about them not being memories. I mean they're a place's...memory, of the person. Not the person themselves. That's not Gohl. It's what this bar remembers of him. Gohl himself, he's moved on. Shut some kind of, mystical door, on his way out." He coughs a laugh at Itzhak's toast, raises his Modelo. "May he rot like an overwatered violet," he says, and takes a drink.

Eyeing Ruiz, he says, "Maybe I can," and starts towards the new patio, aka Easton's former window. He's not done talking about ghosts, apparently. "This town's buildings, the ground, the plants...they've all got memories of their own. That memory of Billy's probably not the same one you'd get," he nods his chin down towards the Boardwalk, "down there. Same way we don't all remember something identically. Which," a glance over his shoulder at Ruiz, "I'm sure you run into with 'eye' witnesses all the time."

He shoves at the glass on the floor with his foot, sending all of it hovering in the air around him. A nod of his head at the frame, and the pieces rush into place, a puzzle reforming itself on command. It's still cracked and smashed, though, looking more like it's held up by invisible tape, until August runs a hand along the frame; the breaks all disappear, leaving it just a window.

He turns back towards the bar. "Hopefully he's not back. But with his grave vanished, maybe we need to sniff around a bit."

"No." Easton looks at Joey and shakes his head, "Trust me Kelly. I had a ghost." He stops short of explaining anything more about it. He's already drinking but boy is he not going to open up that door if he wants to keep a hold of himself. He nods appreciatively at August as he explains most of the Gohl history and some of the finer points of ghost. But he adds on, "It ain't that person. That wasn't Billy. If that were Billy, there ain't no way all four of us." He looks between Ruiz, August and Itzahk, "Would be here breathing. That's just the memories of someone or maybe this place-" As he says it the reality of that hits him. Between the door to the asylum and the embedded memories of Gohl, he sure picked a winner.. or did he pick at all?

"This fucking place." A dark mutter escapes his lips.

"We all gave up shit. Important shit. To make sure he's gone." Easton explains to Vic and Joey, full of confidence, "He's not back.." Because if he were back, the doors should be open and Easton can't sense anything as far away as he once could. And Tom would be back. Right? That's how that would work.

Easton barely has time to give Ruiz a quizzical look about why Roen would do glass repair before August does some magical glass repair. Seriously he always forgets that people can 'heal' inanimate objects. But he's still smoking his cigarette even if they are now fully enclosed again, "Thanks Roen, but ya didn't have to." He sighs out a plume of smoke and closes his eyes, trying to get back to an even keel.

"I meant the whole serial killer thing, Kelly. And why the fuck he was talking like Nathan Detroit or whatever," Vic notes with a faint smile for her actual boss. Very faint. She'll deny it existed if anyone points it out. Really. "How long ago did that fucker die?" She drains her glass and sets it in the crate for the dishwasher under the bar. She's got that look about her, one possibly only Ruiz recognizes. The one that says she really needs some blow right about now. She rubs a hand under her nose as if the motion can quell the need, but it really doesn't.

August explains the whole thing and she snorts. "Yeah, I know all about the...stuff. I'm from Portland." Which explains a lot. That place has some thin spots too, as many of them have learned first hand. She looks over at Easton and squints. "You back with us, Three Apples? You want your piece back?" she offers. "Or are you still a bit not here?"

Joey squint a look to Itzhak. Seriously, dafuk dude? He sets the bottle down and pauses giving Itzhak another look, though this one having the shadow of taking offense to some part but here and now are not the place to address everything. In the end when Roen tries to say it's just the building's memory there is a flash of actual emotion, rare as it is, that flushes the surface of his face and he warns, because he respects the dude, "You take that back. They ain't just some reflection." Now is he even noticing the remelting of glass at all? He's neither seen, looked, nor commented on it. but why if it's commonplace?

Easton at least is drawing a difference between teh two and he tries to talk to the resonable guy branding weapons at windows. "Yeah, man. I got one too. Trust me, I get is. You saying this Billy is not the actual ghost Billy but some playback?" Taking a deep breath he leans back to look under the bar by his feet, in his glass, and then back to Easton, "Why your bar depressed man? First it's got gremlins and now it's lonly for a gone ghost?" To Vic he shrugs, "Long ass time ago. They totes talked funny."

So, Joe's been away in Seattle for a few days. Catching up with friends who work in the aerospace industry up there, dealing with the more esoteric facets of health care through the VA system - he's got enough reconstructive titanium in him to patch at least a small hole in an aircraft's fuselage....and, apparently, getting tattooed. For across his fingers, still with the slick of tattoo aftercare goo on it, in shades of ocean blue is the phrase 'HOLD FAST'.

He'd been threatening to get it. Looks like he up and did....and that he's got enough of something or other in him to deal with this being the place it is. God knows, he comes in without that limp, heads for the bar.

So, Joe's been away in Seattle for a few days. Catching up with friends who work in the aerospace industry up there, dealing with the more esoteric facets of health care through the VA system - he's got enough reconstructive titanium in him to patch at least a small hole in an aircraft's fuselage....and, apparently, getting tattooed. For across his fingers, still with the slick of tattoo aftercare goo on it, in shades of ocean blue is the phrase 'HOLD FAST'.

He'd been threatening to get it. Looks like he up and did....and that he's got enough of something or other in him to deal with this being the place it is. For there he is, knocking at the door, with the back of his wrist.

The way de la Vega's watching their erstwhile bartender right now, he knows full damned well what that look on her face is. His expression hardens a fraction, dark eyes becoming narrowed and contemplative as he tosses back another slug of his tequila. Then idly watches August melting the glass back into place. That's a neat little trick, and well out of his wheelhouse. "I need a smoke," he murmurs to Itzhak, while the conversation continues around him. A slap to the other man's shoulder that might read as hetero, or it might not. And then he's prowling off for the deck, a pack of kreteks slid out of his jacket pocket as he goes.

Itzhak just gets blatantly Jewish over everyone and despite the looks he gets, just clacks the empty glass upside-down on the bar with an air of formality. "God, big fuckin' mood," he murmurs back to Ruiz. He's about to follow him out when Joe's knocking. Squinting--why is there knocking?--he goes to push the door open.

At the knock, Vic glances around, confirms all the weapons are stowed and the window repaired, and flicks her fingers at the door again. The door unlocks and cracks open to admit Joe. The mention of a smoke has her left eye twitching, jonesing for one herself.

The look Easton gives Joey is hard to read, just a slight raising of his eyebrows but a little bit of a grimace. He looks at Ruiz as if remembering something, but not about him specifically. Easton once brutally broke the news about a ghost not being the spirit of a dead person to Sutton, it didn't go well. And so he doesn't say anymore on the subject to Joey. He is certain in himself that Tom's ghost wasn't any actual remnant of Tom, but that's not to say he knows everything about ghosts.

Asked about his piece Easton shakes his head, "Nah, back under the bar.." He doesn't look like he's in any shape to be handling a gun right now. Not that he regrets firing on Gohl, hell he'd recommend that as the first thing anyone does if he pops up again. Standing up when Ruiz says he needs a smoke, Easton follows him out, already smoking but it's going to be more than one. He also has his glass full of whiskey that he's bringing out so it might be an extended smoke break.

"My bar is fuckin depressed because it's in this hellhole of a town and it's stuck with Chung Chung" <-- That's Easton making the law and order sound effect "behind the bar."

August eyes Joey for a long second. But then Easton's clarifying, and August tilts his head at him. "Like he says. They're not all the same. But," his gaze slides to Easton, "I take offense, Marshall. There's no way I'd let that motherfucker hurt anyone in my vicinity. He never had to go toe to toe with me." Of course, it was Thomas August would have really been squaring off against, and he's notoriously unable to hurt people unless pressured. But of course, if someone was bleeding out with a slashed throat, well...

He waves a hand at the thanks-but-you-didn't. "It's fine. Fuck Them. They can come and get some." And from the looks of him oh how they have been. Well, let it never be said August is always level-headed and never looking for trouble.

He shrugs those finer points aside, nods at Joey. "Yeah. A shitty, low-def recording." He looks askance at Vic, points his beer Joey's direction. "Think, like, the 1900s. Long fucking time ago."

He eyes his beer, finishes it off and slaps a hand on the bar. "Be back in a bit." He heads off to the deck, maybe to find a corner nearish to Ruiz but far enough away to make a phonecall or have a text convo.

Vic snorts and secures Easton's pistol under the bar with the Mossberg shotgun. "Yeah, I'm going on break. I trust Kelly to be honest with the pours and the till." Because he's her real boss. She plucks up a crate of dirty highball glasses to bring back into the kitchen and pop in the dishwasher, so she can then sneak off to a dark corner to snort some blow and try to remind herself she gets paid a lot to stay in this town with all it's crazy shit.

Well, everyone's suddenly scattering like a covey of quail when the hunter's spaniel shows up. Joe's already looking nonplussed by the door apparently sticking.....and there's that air of bristling unease that seems to accompany him in the Twofer's environs these days. But he does take a seat and order a Jack and Coke. Which means that he's in semi-social mode, versus gunning for a real hard drunk on immediately.

Joey is sitting at the bar in one of those simmering modes where a couple pals just tired to inform the yard boss that Santa ain't real. He's keeping his council and pouring himself another shot. Does he even like tequila? Actually no, but fuck it. This is what's in front of him.

Looking up to Cavanaugh he greets, "You just missed the Kool-Aid Man. Hell of a thing."

The sailor cocks a blue eye at him, curious. "How's that?" he wonders. He's met Joey a few times, and the name does filter through, after a moment, and he tacks on, "Kelly," A glance around. "Place don't look wrecked," he adds, wryly.

Joey looks around and considers this, tilting his head in agreement. "Eh, not anymore. You life here long enough you get good at lcleaning up a mess." Looking at his hands covered in Aquaphor and back up he notes, "New ink. Clean work. Get that today?" Sometimes any conversation in a storm of thoughts.

Easton wanted Dark and Stormy here it is. Feh.

"Couple days," Joe says, looking with at the new ink with evident satisfaction, like nothing so much as a newly engaged girl preening over her ring. "I heal quick, but not so quick as I used to." He's certainly got enough ink visible, and that only with him in just t-shirt and jeans. "Done up in Seattle."

The door to the patio opens, shuts, and in comes Itzhak. He's a little calmer. Not quite quivering like an E string. But he's still stalking as he comes over, smelling of clove smoke. "Cavanaugh." He thumps Joe on the back and pulls up a stool next to him--and notices the new ink. "Hey, you went'n did it. Let's have a look." He makes to take Joe's wrist.

It's like that meeting on the boat - Joe permits it, though there's that something in his expression. That patience....and then he realizes it's there, and grins up into Itzhak's face, conspiratorial. "Yeah," he says. "Finally did. I wanted....I get ink to commemorate things. Almost like that movie, Memento, you know? I mean, they already got the guy that killed my fiancee, I'm not the one who has to do it, but...." Rotting in a prison in Russia, the book thrown at him. "But to remember. To write on the body what I can't forget."

The two Joes and a Jew are joined by a surly Mexican not five minutes later, fresh from a smoke out on the patio, and still smelling like cloves and rain. The cop slides in beside Joey, thumps Joe (the blond one) under the table with a booted foot, and idly flicks at his lighter as he studies the ink that's got Itzhak getting all handsy with his thang. "Let's see," he murmurs, turning his left hand palm up, two fingers hooked in a c'mere motion.

August comes back in from the deck, shoulders hunched against the Spring cold, phone sliding back into his pocket. Summer can show up any old day now. He heads towards the bar, tips his chin up at Joe in a wordless greeting. Another drink from the bartender--just a mock Moscow Mule (ginger beer, grenadine, and lime), so perhaps he's planning on heading back to Eleanor's soonish. "You just missed the excitement," he says, like no one else has mentioned it. Who knows, maybe they haven't.

Joseph graciously bestows his other hand in Ruiz's. Both are newly inked, after all. The letters are outlined in black,but the thicker strokes are shaded in ocean blues, pale to dark. It is a sailor tattoo, after all. He withdraws neither, but looks up as August reappears. "What excitement?" he asks, and there's something flat in his gaze. He doesn't like this bar anymore, not now, not knowing what's under the floor.....and that unease is plain.

Joey is sitting quietly. Itzhak gets a long stare but a slight nod. He lets Joe tell his story of the ink and listens. Ruiz in this cases turns out to be the odd oasis and he gets the vocal mumble, "Hey." He looks at August, one eye twitching slightly, but casually offering, Joe, "Eh, ghost of a ghost scared Easton into wetting himself and he drew his piece on it. Got everyone worked up."

"Never seen it," Itzhak says absently, Joe's wrist braceleted by his long fingers. "Know whatcha mean, though." Of course he does. "Looks great." That's for the new ink, which he's careful not to touch. He glances at Joe, sees him looking at him like that, and smirks, and lets him go. As if remembering when they were fresh, he rubs his own knuckle tattoos. "That story I told ya the other day," he says to Joe. "About William Gohl. Was his ghost just showed up. Marshall shot out his own damn window drawin' on him." He shrugs, like, whaddaya gonna do, Marines gonna Marine. Joey gets a funny look from him. Then he slumps over the bar, head propped up on one hand, and siiiiiiiighs. "I'm not gonna sleep for days now," he complains in a grumble.

Well, the wetting himself may be a slight misrepresentation, but de la Vega's not going to argue it. He's rather absorbed at the moment in his examination of Joe's new ink. Well, the FAST portion of it, at least. The blond's wrist is held in a firm grip while his thumb's grazed along the man's healing knuckles like he doesn't give a shit if it hurts. He makes a sound in his throat that might be approval, or merely thoughtfulness. Then a tick of dark eyes to blue, and a low murmur as he eases back in his chair, "Aférrate a los sueños, porque cuando los sueños se van, la vida es un campo de eventos helado con nieve."

Silent then, he reaches across to rub Itzhak's back. Just once, with some hesitance.

Joe looks....for a moment, it's something almost cruel. That hauteur with none of his usual warmth. Maybe it's the mention of Gohl, though he tries a wan smile for them. "Place called All or Nothing in Seattle did it," he explains, low-voiced. "Is it the ghost of Gohl's ghost showing up?" He apparently realizes how absurd that sentence sounded, and makes a face.

No flinching at the way Ruiz touches the ink, though it gets another flicker of a smile.

"Billy the Ghoul," August specifies on the heels of Itzhak's recounting. "Notorious serial killer of forever ago and last summer." He makes a low sound, bumps a shoulder against Itzhak companionably. "Might take a walk on the beach, make a fire." Not sleep for a little while longer.

He sips from his drink, leans over to eye the new tattoos. A grimace for Ruiz touching them.

"Very nice," he says. "Where'd you get 'em done? Portland? Seattle?"

As the talk of their take of 'ghosts' goes on . He finishes his drink and leaves a twenty on the bar. "Well, if you want to talk to a ghost expert find me." He stands and slaps Ruiz on the back just above his holster. "God knows she's been doing it professionally for seventeen years." Fishing out his keys he tells them, "I open in four hours. If he shows up and tries to kill me again, well... you'll hear me bitchin about it from wherever. Night, boys."

Itzhak is muttering savagely to himself. "My fucking violin. Had her since I was fourteen and I buried her with him." Ohhh is he not over that. He responds to August bumping him, and Ruiz rubbing his back, by lifting his head from his hand and looking at them both. August has a great idea, as far as he's concerned, "Yeah, that sounds good, actually." He upnods to Joey as he gets up--then looks at him again, sharply. "What? Who? ...night, Kelly."

"Buenas noches, Kelly," returns the cop, and gives Joey a rap with his knuckles as he pulls away. "Hey, got a few things to talk to you about tomorrow. I'll stop by." A brief smile that doesn't linger, though the crow's feet at the corners of those smoke-dark eyes do. He trails the younger man with his gaze for a few moments, then reaches for a cold tater tot. Crackle as grease-coated potato is obliterated between his teeth, and he licks off his finger and thumb before drying them on a napkin. Joe's watched for the entirety of that little ritual; hard to say what the look on his face is, though it isn't unhappy. "How's the new one coming?" he enquires of Itzhak. Violin, he probably means.

"Night, Kelly," Joe says, voice low. HE's got his drink, a Jack and Coke, but he's ignoring it again. Looking now like he's tempted to huddle against one of the others for warmth - there's a faint hunch to his shoulders. Still with that stern expression, almost cold. Might be a mask for distress, might be his own little seed of anger on Itzhak's behalf. "I'm sorry," he says, softly. "That's a loss." There are things it hurts as much to lose as any person.

Joey bumps the knuckles still not able to shake the off mood. Hey, maybe it's the ghost of the guy that almost killed him showing up that leaves an impression. These things are messed up. Ruiz gets a curious look for a long moment. Most curious. "Yeah I should be at the gym til six. Look me up." Joe gets a pat on the top of the shoulder as he moves past"Night, Cav." He props the door open but doesn't stop and answers Itzhak. "My ma." Everyone's a medium or something. With that he wades out and heads back across town.

"Night," August calls after Joey. He nurses his bright red drink with the wedge of lime on it. "I think he means Gohl. He was riding Alexander when Alexander, ah, helped Kelly redecorate." He can't help but smile, a little, at the memory. All this time later it's mostly just funny. Or he's more of a Gray Harborite than he used to be.

He makes a low sound, stares into his drink. "That tree we used to make his coffin was older than this town. Taught me everything I know about growing things." He raises it, announces, "Fuck that guy," and has a drink.

"Ya ma?" Itzhak repeats. "His ma?" he then echoes to the other men. "His ma's a ghost? ...guess it makes as much sense as any other goddamn thing." He presses thumb and forefinger into his eyes like he's got a headache. "We gotta cut the trees down. Then usually we'd age the wood five or ten years or so, Roen's got a way around that. Then Hya does her thing." Dropping his hand, he tries to stare a smoking hole through Easton's bar top. "Hundreds of years in that tree. Thousands of hours in that violin. Most of my fucking life. I gave her to keep him down and now his fucking grave is gone and he's showing up at the Twofer for a fucking drink!"

He starts low, and by the time he's got to the end, he's snarling, fists clenched.

Talk of Gohl riding people makes Ruiz frown slightly. That pinched look that he gets, brows all furrowed, teeth together, jaw tense. Might be he's thinking about how he attacked and nearly killed his girlfriend at the time. The things this town takes from them. "We don't know for certain it was him," he murmurs to Itzhak, toying with his lighter on the bartop. Spinning it in slow circles with a fingertip. His gaze drifts to the window that was shot earlier, eyes narrowed like he's considering something. Possibly something ill-advised. It's hard to say, with de la Vega.

Because that paragon of level-headed common sense Javier never does anything ill-advised....like letting himself be seduced by an older officer. "Could They be doing that just to fuck with y'all?" Joe offers, after a moment. "I mean, if They're all about hitting us where it hurts, few things hurt more than finding out a sacrifice is in vain. That some Stone Table breaking bullshit, right? I mean...you think you know what you've gotten for what you've given, and then...the rules are changed."

August frowns to hear Joey indicate it's his...mother's ghost, who might be trying to kill him. Well. That's a thing. "Well I guess we know where he gets it from," he mutters around another drink of the mocktail.

Of the violin, he explains, "We can wither things. Age them. I think I can turn that around a bit, age them the way Hyacinth needs for making it."

He listens to the discussion of the ghost, eyes moving between them. He grimaces, nods at Joe. "Could be," he agrees. "What better way to fuck with us than to make it seem like nothing we did mattered?"

Itzhak grimaces. Stop being rational, he wants to be mad. But his engineer's brain has to admit, "Yeah. It's possible that wasn't him at all, just Them juicing us up." Juicing him up in particular. All those wild emotions he's got, how eager he is to get out of control--so delicious. "He closed the doors, though. And after his grave vanished and I can't do half the shit I used to be able to do?" He spreads his fingers, looking down at his palms, then those long fingers curl into fists. "Somethin's fucked up."

One of those fists of Itzhak's is covered in another warm, rough-fingered hand marked with tatts on the backs of the knuckles. Not a mnemonic, like his or Joe's new piece, but that disjoint set of symbols and letters that anyone in the know would instantly recognise as gang affiliated. And Itzhak himself gave him a hard time about, once. "We'll figure it out. Bebé, deja de preocuparte por esto, huh?" Javier gives that fist a squeeze, then releases it, shoves his lighter into his jacket pocket, and starts to his feet. "Any of you want a ride, I'm headed out."

A glint of humor in Joe's eyes at that question, and he can't help but glance at Itzhak. But...Itz is the one upset, and both of Joe's homes are within easy walking distance. "It sounds fucked up," he allows. He hasn't touched that drink, he doesn't seem to smoke anymore. Presumably all that's left is to go home and get high, one way or another. "Nah," he says, gently. "Y'all have a good night." He's assuming the fiddler will be peeling off with Ruiz, presumably.

August finishes off his mocktail, settles up in cash. "I'm gonna walk on the beach a bit," he says in response to Ruiz's offer. "But thanks." He pats Itzhak on the back. "Feel free to come by the cabin and bother the animals or the trees if you can't sleep. Night, gentlemen."

Itzhak's other hand uncurls, creeps over to lay long fingers over Ruiz's hand. Let's be honest, he's always the one who's upset, running too hot. He's got a weird look on his face, like he shouldn't go with Ruiz just because he really wants to. Like somehow he doesn't deserve to, even though it's what he wants most in this moment. Swallowing, he makes himself nod. "Comin' with ya." He grips August's shoulder, glances at him with brow furrowed, then gets up. "Night, guys."

Itzhak's like the engines he whispers to, in some respects. Hell of a lot of RPMs to be clocking in that lanky frame. Javier's keys come out after he squares up for his drinks and those of his companions, without a word. Then starts ambling away from the bar, a rap of knuckles to August's arm when the other man announces he's going for a walk. "Ten cuidado," he murmurs, with a long look that's eventually thwarted by Joe being.. well, Joe. "..yeah. I changed my mind. You're coming with us. Come on." And he's off, door held for both men.

Well, that was an order....and Joe never does disobey, does he? Without protest, he's following them out. He can at least walk them out to the car, right? At least he lets Itzhak precede him.