2020-06-22 - To Fix A Fairlane

(TXT to Itzhak) Cristobal : You get my baby?

(TXT to Cristobal) Itzhak : Hey. yeah got her to the garage. you okay?

(TXT to Itzhak) Cristobal : Still breathing. Can I swing by and take a look at the damage?

(TXT to Cristobal) Itzhak : sure you can, but gotta warn you, she ain't so pretty.

(TXT to Cristobal) Itzhak : need a ride?

(TXT to Itzhak) Cristobal : Unless I wanna carjack Dante's Yaris.

(TXT to Cristobal) Itzhak : heh. he ever let you drive it? I souped that thing the hell up. okay, be over in 10

(TXT to Itzhak) Cristobal : Meet you at the curb.

Cristobal is waiting as promised at the curb, the main house is dark but the lights are still on up in the garage apartment. He has a flannel thrown over a white tank and a pair of jeans, the bulge of his sidearm thinly veiled by the checkered pattern of orange and black button down. He's smoking a cigarette as he waits, checking his phone not for the time but for the litany of texts that seem to be on a steady dribble thanks to this recent development.

Itzhak pulls up in less than the promised ten minutes. He's driving his plum-purple-glitter Stingray, a vehicle that slinks like a serpent if ever there was one. Her engine is heard before the car is seen, a deep bone-shaking rumble. Itzhak beckons Cris to jump in, his expression sour behind his mirrored aviators.

"Anybody ever tell you, you drive a fucking disco ball?" Cris says as he drops weightily into the passenger side seat, drawing the door closed behind him after he tucks his other leg in stiffly. The worst of his injuries are healing or have healed nicely, but he's still left a bit sore all over from being bandied about in his Fairlane. "Sweet ass disco ball, though." He admires the arm rest with a smooth of his palm.

"Don't listen to him, baby," Itzhak tells the car, patting the dashboard soothingly. "He's in a bad mood. You're the still the prettiest." He shifts, pulling away from the curb in a smooth arc of acceleration. "So what the fuck happened?" That's to Cris, though Itzhak, of course, isn't looking at him. His sunglasses are trained on the road.

Cris slinks down in the seat a little, either trying to get comfortable, shrinking underneath the gaze, or trying to to be spotted in the Purple Peaple Eater. It's anyone's guess because Cris has his game face on. "Some asshole tried to pass me in a solid stripe lane." How much does Itzhak already know? How much should Itzhak know? For right now it looks like Cris is playing this one close to his chest.

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on." Did Itzhak learn that from Dante? Maybe! He glances sidelong at Cris, eyes hidden behind the mirrored shades, then back to the road. "Leaves a particular kinda damage if that happens. Really distinct."

It's not a long drive to the Spruce industrial area, they won't be in the car for long.

There is a slow look slid Itzhak's way at the use of that idiom, "Entirely plausible seeming how I'm missing a passenger sideview mirror. Of course I guess that doesn't explain the rear end damage from being sped into going seventy. Hit a deer?" Cris grins wide, his eyes clearly readable as he doesn't have on shades, he's going to have that squinting into the sun look soon, if he's not careful. "Some asshole tried to drive me into the sea to see if I could swim. He failed."

"You'd have to back into the deer goin' seventy in reverse." Not that Itzhak seems to dismiss that possibility. He listens to that, then grunts, his flat belly hitching. "Jesus Christ. I owe you a beating for letting de la Vega get shot, now I gotta beat someone else on your behalf? You're gonna make me wear the goddamn ink off my knuckles."

He pulls into the driveway of Steelhead. It's looking different these days, the garage, much more like a miniature hangar than a garage. A gracefully swooped ceiling, handsome doors of glass and steel, it's like Itzhak is recreating a fancy European high-end motor shop. That's because he's totally doing that. In defiance of literally everything and everyone.

There is a lick to Cristobal's lips, slow and deliberate as he tastes those words about Itzhak owing him a bruising for Ruiz, and it's leaving him with nothing but a bitter taste. "Watch your ass, Rosy. The days of free punches are over." There is just the rumble of the engine as Cruz falls silent for a second, splitting his thoughts apart. "And you're going to have to get in line as far as vengeful acts on my behalf. Perp was driving Kelly's car, so expect that one to be towed in here next. I shot out the back window."

Cris leans forward as they pull up to Steelhead, trying to get a full view of the fancy new exterior. "Fuck, Itz. Looks like you're going legit."

"Who said I was lookin' for free?" Itzhak, for someone whose accent is all Mel Brooks and steel wool, can sure sound like bad news when he wants to. But he smiles when Cris compliments (maybe??) his garage.

He throws 'er in park, snatches off his sunglasses and gives Cris a hell of a narrow look. "Ya shitting me. Someone stole Kelly's car and rammed you with it?" But...this makes sense to him. It's obvious that he has his guesses and he's pretty sure they're accurate, from the expression in his hazel eyes. "Well, you're right, anything I can do to 'em is gonna feel like tickling compared to Kelly. C'mon."

The garage isn't finished. Large portions of it are tarps, rustling and snapping in the breeze. Within is Cris's poor Fairlane, crumpled and bashed.

"He promised me the leftovers." Cris says of whatever is left of this guy once Kelly's done with him. The Mexican sucks against his teeth knowing that's confirmation enough about what happened, and then pulls the door release, exiting the vehicle like he's twenty years older, stiffly stretching once he's out despite the short ride. That is until he gets into Itz' garage and sees his car. "Oh mi dulce bebé, ¿qué te hizo ese bastardo?"

"There's gonna be plenty to go around," Itzhak mutters, leading the way inside.

He winces when Cris talks to his car in Spanish; he knows that much. The Fairlane is looking pretty rough. Swagging on over to it, he sets a big calloused hand on the bashed-in side panel. "Get 'er fixed up, don't you worry. You know I'm good for it." After he repaired Sutton's Triumph to a gleam, Cris should know he's good for it.

Cris crouches down, his finger flaking off a bit of the paint above one of the broken taillights, watching with disgust as it filters to the ground. "This was the original paint. She was some old Betty's barn find when I got her. Rolled her out into the sunshine and after a little spit polish she gleamed like a gem." With a shake of his head, he braces himself on the back bumper to help him get back to his feet. The bumper promptly falls off. "*Pinche JOTO!"

Itzhak winces harder. Oh, he feels that pain in his cranky soul. Original paint, no less.

"She'll be just as pretty again. I'll match the original paint, or hell, I'll totally repaint her if you want. Up to you." Then Cris leans on the bumper and it falls off and Itzhak lunges to catch Cris should he topple over.

Cris stumbles backwards and almost goes tits over teakettle but Itzhak's hand is there to brace him and he reaches across his body and clamps a hand on the man's wrist to steady himself even more as his sore legs straighten. "Whatever man." Cruz says sourly, leaving the decision in the hands of the professional. "And if you want the original passenger side mirror, I left it somewhere between here and Hoaquim." He turns away from the carnage as if were a loved one on an autopsy table, his hand still remaining clamped on Itzhak's wrist. "I'm good, I'm good."

Itzhak grabs Cris by the shoulder, too, because Cruz is not so steady on his feet today. Cruz is moving like he was in a car accident or something, like some schmuck or schmucks unknown tried to run him off the road. He's scowling at him, ferocious, the corners of his gray eyes crinkled in worry.

"I owe you somethin' else, you know," he informs him. Then he hugs him, tight, those long arms winding around Cris and his lanky form mashed against him. No A-frame hug this! This is the real thing, full on.

That scowl is a warning. The worry confusing. And then he's owed something and Cris bows up like what he's being threatened with is that beat down he was promised earlier. But then it turns into a hug, and for a split second Cris is tense against it before it's returned, fierce and tight for a second before it's followed with an awkward back pat. "Better stop going mushy on me before the Latino in my pants decides he didn't get the memo that this is between bros."

"Shut up, Cruz." Itzhak is not done with this hug yet. "God, you talk so much."

He hugs him like that for what must be a good thirty more seconds, before his arms finally relax and he puts Cris at arms' length, eyeing him. "You saved his life. For that, I thank you."

And to make everything worse, he dips Cris an elegant little soloist's bow, complete with a graceful flourish of one hand.

It was sweet for a second, and then Cruz has to go and fuck it up. Not just with words this time, but for reaching down to catch Itzhak's chin when he bows to urge him back up, without so much as a please. "I'd go saving your fancy ass thank you's if I were you Rosy. Fact is he owes me, and I damn well intend to collect." Those pale blue eyes of Cruz' look bent towards a stormy grey, no telling what he intends to even the score with, but it's not innocent by that vicious gleam.

Itzhak jerks his chin out of Cris's fingers. "I know he does." The look on his face...it's difficult to read. Complicated. Stormy. "I know you're supplying him."

That, and then he's turning to stalk around the side of the car, pick up the bumper.

Cris' upper lip turns into a sadistic sneer as Itzhak tugs away, a flash of teeth ready to bite. "You're goddamn fucking right I'm supplying him." Cris says without the slightest hint of shame as he backs up with a drag of cowboy boots until his butt hits the fender and he leans, digging for a pack of smokes.

"And you better fuckin' keep doing it." Itzhak grabbed the bumper and now he's lifting it like it weighs as much as a stick of firewood. He lightly tosses that big chunk of Detroit steel in his hand, as if it was a baseball, turns to eye Cris again, and now his expression is clear: pissed off. But, perhaps, not at Cris. Although some at Cris. Mostly at things and people not here.

"As long as he keeps sucking my dick." Cris mumbles around his cigarette almost knee jerk, resorting to his default setting of Grade-A Asshole when things got a little too personal, a little too emotional. He can feel the shift in the air, subtle as it is, as Itzhak hoists the bumper. The lanky loverboy gets a side eye as Cris ducks his head setting the tip of his cigarette to flame, all casual like.

If Cris was hoping to get Itzhak much more pissed off at him specifically, he gets what he wants; Itzhak slowly turns to face him, tall body slicing through the air like a sword. He looks at him, eyes hot, the bumper improbably in his hand. Sure it's just a bumper, but suddenly it seems obvious that it'd make a fantastic Mad Max-style weapon.

"Nice fuckin' try," he growls. "Asshole."

"Oh, I know. He likes to get his knob slobbed more than give. But if you get him juuuuust high enough, all bets are off and suddenly he's the one biting the pillow, amiright?" Cris has like, three real friends in this town. If he isn't pissing off one at any given moment, then he's not living right. Penance, through all things. Even if that means running his mouth to rile up Itzhakachu over there. But he's fucking cranky. Targeted for a kill will do that to a man.

Itzhak tosses the bumper aside. For how little strength it seems to take him--just toss! like he'd toss a wrench--the thing hits the concrete floor with a massive CLANG, ringing like a bell.

He points at Cris, two fingered, tough-guy New York style. "I will fuckin' hug you again, Cruz." You'd think he was threatening him with something a lot meaner than a hug.

Cris exhales a plume of smoke as that bumper goes flying, the grey stream stuttered with a coarse laugh. "Thinking that's what I might call in my chit for. Whaddya think? A chance to rail his hairy ass." This comes complete with hip thrusting action, which is a G.I. Joe aftermarket modification of this particular asshole. You'd think he was an ex-marine, but sometimes ex-cops can be just as bad. And then Itzhak is threatening another hug. "Don't you fucking come near me, Rosy. I swear. Or my hand is going straight down you pants for a bit of a 'how's your father'." Not the only one that picks up a few slang terms from Dante.

All the warning Cris gets is a rapid tap-tap-tap of Itzhak's fingers on his jean-clad hip. One and two and three and four--

and then Cris's cigarette wriggles itself free of his lips and fingers and sails over to Itzhak. He plucks it from the air and sets it to his own lips. Insolently, slowly he does that, and insolently, slowly drags off it, and it seems like he couldn't pack even more insolence into blowing the smoke at Cris but he can. "I think, good fuckin' luck with that, ya gonna need it."

"He-hey!" Cris fumbles to try to retrieve the cigarette that's pulling some sort of Houdini disappearing act from aptly giving him cancer, trying to pluck it back from thin air but too slow. His eyes narrow at Itzhak, one corner of his mouth twitching it what threatens to be a smirk but gets gritted away with a clamp of teeth. As Itzhak takes his nice slow drag, Cris strides over until he's well within personal bubble and second hand smoke inhalation space. "We both know, either way? I'd still get my rocks off."

Itzhak stands there unflinchingly, letting Cris roll up on him. This just means he gets to make sure of exhaling smoke on him. Which he does. Like an asshole.

"I talked about you with Dante, ya know?" Itzhak hikes his eyebrows, saucy af. He's holding the cigarette in his right hand, fingers poised with a certain delicacy, his wrist bent as gracefully as a swan's neck. It makes him look incredibly gay. (Although it's actually just the way he holds his bow. He holds everything in his right hand like that.) "You know what I told him?"

Cris takes the face full of smoke like he's smelling the perfume of a rose, a deep lungful as if he's determined to get his nic fit fixed one way or the other. His head cants, and he leans forward, as if offering Itzhak his ear because he's suddenly gone hard of hearing. "¿Que es eso?"

"Told him you got the soul of a poet." Itzhak takes another drag. "He thought I was saying you're soft inside. I said, hell no, poets ain't soft. Poets got knives for souls. They take that fucker and," his wrist twists, sharp, as if turning a key, "they carve everything open. Themselves, too. Probably themselves worst." He pauses to consider. "I didn't tell him that last part. But it's true. De la Vega taught me that."

Cris' face scrunches up as he takes a heavy sniff of air, hand rising to scratch the side of his nose as if he caught scent of something offensive. "That so." His lean turns into a prop of hand to the side of Itzhak so he can deepen it, not quite near as tall so they're not eye to eye, yet Cris is happy to stare at the man's mouth. "Because Javier is such a poet, is that it?"

Itzhak sets fingertips in the center of Cris's chest, enough pressure to hurt if Cris doesn't give way. "Because," he says, looking him right in the eye, his crow's-feet crinkled, although he's not smiling, "you oughta play guitar again."

And Cris doesn't relent, not right away, even if that means he has five nice little bruises for his trouble. His gaze travels from Itzhak's lips that form words he's forgotten to remember to hear to Itzhak's eyes with a lift of his chin to help the voyage. "And you should stick to fixing cars instead of trying to fix me." Pat-pat. Cris' palm taps Itzhak on the cheek.

"Fix you?" Itzhak's eyebrows go up. On a face that seems to do nothing but emote, those things emote the most. "Fix, fix, how could I fix you? It maybe occur to you I don't wanna fix you. I wanna play with you." He pushes harder, harder, making sure Cris is gonna have a neat circle of bruises right on the solar plexus.

Those fingers are incredibly strong. That's his left hand, his dominant hand and the hand he uses on the neck of his violin. The hand that goes in first in a fight. The knuckles read DOWN.

Cris' chest expands, his pectorals tightening as he takes a breath while his eyes flash at the pinpoints of pain. Then another breath. Finally the heel of Cris' boot slips back, a step taken and then two. "Yeah, that'd be something. Wouldn't it." He turns then, shooting Itzhak a two fingered 'peace' back over his shoulder. "Thanks for letting me see my girl. Think I'll walk home."

Itzhak sets Cris's cigarette, now his cigarette, to his lips and inhales. "Sure would be," he says, quietly. He watches Cris just long enough to make sure he's actually leaving. Then he turns, too, to the Fairlane whose outside now matches her owner's inside.