2020-07-21 - Looking Out For You

The clouds hang low over the city. The heat is damp, a little oppressive, although the breezes coming off the harbor help a little. Alexander has been, for the most part, /boring/ to watch. He's walked down to the Two if By Sea. He's had Itzhak visit him. Isabella has come and gone at various times. He's done yardwork, a little, but has mostly stayed in the house with all the shades drawn. But now he's out again. Dressed in a dark green t-shirt, and an army jacket it's too warm for, jeans, and boots. He walks like he usually walks, his head down and shoulders slouched. He walks like a guy expecting to be kicked, but on Elm, most people just avoid him.

Cristobal lives in the 40's of Elm, so it's not unusual to see him slipping along the street in his Ford Fairlane, occasionally cruising along past Alexander's to keep an eye on the man and his place. He's also apparently taking up jogging or walking the little grey Schnauzer dog that belongs to his landlady when he wants to go by foot. The task thus far has proven to be a mundane one, mixed in when time is willing with all his other duties but one take away from the meeting with Joey was keep Clayton safe at all costs.

So his surveillance duties have been doubled in effort, and it's already the third time today he's been by the place, his healthy run stalled by an apparent need for a smoke. So what if it has Cruz leaning against a light post three doors down on the opposite side of the street. As Alexander leaves his house, Cris flicks his cigarette away and casually starts strolling after.

It takes a while to be certain. Cristobal DOES live in the neighborhood, after all, and he's part of the general background noise that is Elm's population. But after recent events, and his own natural paranoia, Alexander has been thinking about who he sees of late, and more importantly, whether they're following him, or worse, following Isabella. So he's at least a little relieved when Cristobal starts strolling after him. He doesn't look back, and he continues to head in the direction that he was going - namely, towards downtown. He takes a turn through a couple of 'for sale' houses that haven't been occupied since the 90s. It takes him out of sight for a moment, which enables him to take a breath, and try to gently spin an illusion around Cristobal's mind. An illusion that puts Alexander at the end of the narrow strip of overgrown lawn between the houses, rather than right at the mouth, waiting for Cristobal to come by.

Cristobal is probably cussing up a Spanish storm in his head as Alexander seems to take a rather odd turn. Has he been made? Regardless, he can't let the man out of his sight for long. There is surge of adrenaline at thinking he might loose his mark, giving Cruz a little boost in his energy. Wait, how'd he get so far ahead? Fuck. With a growl beneath his breath, a little double step turns into a slight jog as he tries to catch up with Clayton.

A few steps into the suburban equivalent of an alley, the Alexander at the end disappears. Instead, there's an Alexander behind Cristobal. And he has a knife in his hand - a wicked looking thing with a bone handle that he handles with confidence. His expression is utterly blank as he asks, "Who are you working for, Mister Cruz?" A moment's pause before he adds. "Please don't lie. I'll know."

Cris doesn't jump out of his skin, at least, when that voice appears behind him but his shoulders do bunch up in apprehension as he turns on his heel to face off with the man that was half a block ahead of him JUST A SECOND ago. "Clayton." Cris' hands are out to the sides of his hips, fingers splayed like a gunfighter in the Old West ready to draw at a moment's notice yet there's no holster strapped on top of his jogging pants. (Ankle holster, ftw). "I'm just keeping an eye out for you, man. Keeping you safe. Now put the knife away, because I'm pretty sure breaking your arm goes against that." Not quiiiiite an answer to the question.

Alexander's expression doesn't change. "Not an answer to the question. And you're following me. In my experience, people who are following me aren't doing it to keep me safe." His eyes don't waver from the man's face, but his stance shifts, becomes tense and ready, the knife raised in a fighter's defensive posture. "Who put you on my tail, Cruz?"

Alexander gets a very flat look as he raises that knife, Cristobal's barely restraining an eye roll. "Ever think that I'm following you to make sure no one else is? But it's good to be paranoid. Paranoia will keep you safe." Bare arms twine over his chest, affecting an air that he doesn't think Alexander is a threat to his own safety, at least not with that apple peeler he's wielding. "Kelly. Joey Kelly asked me to keep an eye on you, so you're welcome motherfucker."

Alexander blinks. He looks genuinely surprised. "Kelly?" He considers Cristobal for a long moment, then nods. "You're not lying." Bright side: he puts the knife away, sliding it into a sheath at the small of his back, hidden under the jacket. "All right. Don't suppose you'll go away." His head tilts to one side. "You were a cop once. You wore the uniform at the funeral."

"I'll go the fuck away when you're no longer in danger, so by the rules of this town, you're fucking stuck with me for LIFE." Cris gives a wide grin that sits a little higher over one canine, making it look more like a sneer. "Lucky you, amiright?" He rocks up onto tennis shoe clad toes, "Yeah, I was a cop once, back in El Paso. A lifetime ago. Well, now that you know about me, I guess this makes things easier. Where you headed, I'll walk with you."

"You're not getting paid enough for that," Alexander says, blandly. "You are getting paid, right? Tell Kelly to fucking pay you." His shoulders hunch, body language immediately falling out of 'ready to rumble' to 'homeless guy caught dumpster diving'. He starts walking, like just expecting Cristobal to keep up, because he talks to the place beside him where he expect Cris to be, whether the guy is there or not. "Pourhouse. Cop drinks there. Harvey Liu. Familiar with the name?"

"Kelly's a friend, don't need to get paid." If Alexander is still running that human lie detector thing, it'll be lighting up right about now. Sure, Cris is in it for some reason, money or other, but it's not just because he and Kelly are pals. He easily falls in step with Alexander, even if the man is more athletic than he seems underneath those baggy second hand clothes. "You mean person of interest number one? Yeah, I should well fucking hope so. Pourhouse it is."

Alexander just gives Cristobal a skeptical, sidelong look, and a grunt. "Person of interest number one? Interesting." He thinks about something, his expression going distracted as they make their way towards the more prosperous areas of town - even if that's a relative sort of prosperity. Eventually, he says, "You're charismatic, in a vaguely threatening and toxically masculine sort of way. And you know how to talk to corrupt cops. You can do the talking." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, slim digital recorder that may be one of the more expensive things he owns. He offers it over. "Liu has gambling debts, does some work for your people, but Kelly says the game store wasn't an order. So, he's either freelancing, or working for someone else."

"For a second there I thought you were trying to hit on me. You had me at toxically masculine." Cris eyes the recorder that's being offered over, for a moment looking like he might refuse. "Now I'm your errand boy." He says dryly, but snaps it out of Alexander's hand regardless, tests how to turn it on and off so he can do so again without needing to look at it, then slips it in the pocket of his jogging pants. "Yeah, alright. Let's go play spies. Your code name is Homeless Bob, and I'm Rico Suave."

Alexander stops for a moment, so he can give Cristobal a long, blank look. Then he shakes his head a little and starts walking. "No. Not trying to hit on you. Just making an observation." He watches his recorder disappear with a little bit of badly-hidden anxiety before he looks away. "Your name is Cristobal Cruz. My name is Alexander Clayton. I don't like code names," he mutters, head ducking as he trudges on. It's an odd couple they make as they reach more commercial streets - more, Alexander grows visibly slower and more reluctant as they approach the street the Pourhouse is on, like he's having to force himself to keep walking. He reaches up and rubs the back of his head. His words come low in volume, but fast. "And it's not an errand. Both of us will scare him, or make him escalate. And of the two of us, he's more likely to talk to you. If you will go away, I'll do it myself. Since you probably won't, it's a strategy."

"Nope." Cris pops the 'P' a little hard, "Not a snow ball's chance in hell, and if I'm doing this I'll be distracted, that means you keep out of the way and out of trouble, because if anything happens to you, it's my ass and it'd be a damn shame if anything happens to as fine of an ass as this." His fingers flicks out to lightly go to backhand Alexander on the shoulder. "Let's do this."

Alexander sidesteps the flick of Cristobal's fingers, scuttling like a crab. But his voice doesn't snap as he says, "I don't like to be touched. Sorry. I know that's weird." He sighs as the roughly aged building of the Pourhouse comes into sight. He frowns at it. "Last time I came here, they tried to kill me." It's toneless. "So I don't plan to make much trouble if I can avoid it. You might not notice me much, once we're inside. But I'll be there. I'll try to help out if it's needed." He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. "You go first."

Inside, the Pourhouse is...well, it's like it is when there's not an event. A lot of hard-drinking blue collar workers mostly ignoring each other as they try to drown their sorrows. Harvey Liu, a well-built man with short cropped hair and a swagger to match Cris' own, is sitting in a booth by himself, staring at a sports game on his phone with the intent look of a man who has money riding on the outcome. A bottle of beer is sitting on the table with him.

"Shit, last person you need to apologize to for being weird is me." Cris assures Alexander and then nods to the rest, the knowledge that Alexander will stick close but out of sight seems to garner approval. "Yeah, alright. I got this." And Cruz ducks into the Pourhouse.

He'd already done a little homework after Joey gave him Liu's name, so he can pick him out among the usual crowd. He doesn't head straight to the booth, but rather the table right next to it. Pulling out a chair as he waves down a waitress with a loud, "Hey sweet cheeks, can I get a..." He 'accidentally' takes a step back, jostling the man's table hard enough to make his beer topple.

"Oh shit man, my bad." He whirls around to pick up the bottle, but not before a significant amount glugs out of the mouth of it. "Make that two beers, I owe my friend, here, one. Sorry about that, man."

There's another skeptical look from Alexander at Cristobal's back, but he follows the other man in, albeit looking like a dog being dragged into a fighting ring. Once in, though, Alexander just blends in in a way that can't quite be explained by his normally unprepossessing demeanor and the rough work of his clothes. People's eyes just skim over him, where they linger on Cristobal, recognizing his out-of-town nature, if nothing else. Alexander goes to take an unoccupied booth in the shadows across the room, although he still has a view of Liu and Cris. No server comes by; their eyes skim him as much as anyone else.

Liu, for his part, jerks back when his table thumps, a startled, "What the fuck--" coming out of his mouth as he snatches his smart phone away from the spreading puddle. He grabs for napkins before the beer trickles into his crotch. At this angle, Cris can see he's wearing his service pistol in a hip holster, even as the guy - faint acne scars still remaining on his skin - gives him an outraged look. "Dude. Watch where you're going!" The offer of a free beer mollifies him only slightly. "Goddamn it," he mutters. "You been tying one on before you even got here, champ?"

Questions are openings, and Cris takes that as an invitation to flop down opposite the man in the booth as he waits for the apology beer to be delivered. "Oh man, I wish. I mean, sure, I pre-gamed a little because it's always cheaper to drink at home amiright? See, I got this girl - smoking fucking hot - but she's been riding my ass lately to get out there and start earning some real money. So I just needed to get out for a minute, you know? Tired of her yammering about some Louis Vitton purse or some shit."

Liu opens his mouth, clearly not having meant those particular questions as an invitation at all. But now Cris is sitting there, and talking and it's a flood of words that the cop doesn't quite know what to do with. He continues to mop up his beer, and frowns at Cris. "Uh. I guess." Some dim vestige of shared bro-hood in his soul makes him add, with reluctant sympathy, "The hot ones are always fucking divas, man." He glances back at his phone, and mutters, "fuck!" under his breath. The ball game is apparently not going well for him. But hey, he hasn't kicked Cris out the table, yet.

"Right? If she didn't give blow jobs like a fucking Hoover, she'd be gone. I swear." Cris pitches forward a bit, feigning interest in the game. "Aw man, was that the Giants choking again? Shit, if they don't pull their heads out of their asses, I'm going to those a dime on this game and my girl can kiss her fancy ass purse Sigh-yo-nah-rah." Cristobal draws out Sayonara like a champ.

Liu snorts. "She finds out you said that, and she's gonna bite it off next time," he says, starting to loosen up. The 'apology beer' certainly helps, and he grabs it when it arrives. But it's the admission of having money at stake that loosens him up further. "Right? Fuck. I got," a hesitation, "a few bucks on this shitshow, too. Got a few innings left, though. Maybe they'll pull it out. I fucking hope so. I gotta make a car payment," he mutters, but tilts the phone so that Cris can see the game. Companions in drunken misery are the best companions.

"Man, more than a few bucks if you got a car payment riding on the line. Been there, shit, I'll be there soon myself if I can't find a side job. You and me'll be riding the bus together, 'ey?" Cris snorts into his beer, eyes going to the phone screen as they change out pitchers.

Liu grunts. Reluctantly, but he admits, "Maybe more than a few." He takes a pull from the beer. "It fucking sucks, man. Shouldn't have to find fucking side jobs to keep yourself fed, right? And it's not like most of them pay shit - look at these sad bastards," he waggles his bottle at the other patrons, mostly mill and dock workers. "At least I'm not them. It's not hard to pick up a few bucks--oh you stupid son of a bitch, you gave him that fucking run. Are you blind?" He rants at the phone for a moment, then shakes it at Cristobal. "What do you do, man?" He looks at the pants. "Gym teacher?" He grins.

"Fuck no, they don't give Ex-cons jobs around impressionable youths - don't worry man, it was only some trumped up B&E charge back from my twenties when this jackass moved in on my girl AND my Sony Playstation. I was determined to get ONE of them back, and the girl was fine but she was no Assassin's Creed, if you know what I'm saying. Naw, look at me man. I'm Mexican. I wash fucking dishes at the Waffle Shoppe. How do you earn your bread?" Cris wonders back, in kind.

Liu's eyes widen a little at the ex-con, and he sits back, studying Cris over the bottle. "See, that's where you went wrong," he drawls. "You don't go get it yourself, you drop a little weed through the window - or, fuck, these days a little meth, since we're all smoking the shit out of the weed - and then you get a friendly neighborhood police officer to go by and check the place out. Take 'em both out in handcuffs." He grins. "I call that justice done." He takes a pull from the bottle. "But that sucks. And me? I am the friendly neighborhood police officer. Pay is shit, though." He opens his mouth, then some moderate amount of self-preservation makes him shut it again. His gaze drifts back to the game. Which isn't going any better than it was.

"Daaaaang, that's fucking ingenious, bro. Seriously, GENE-E-US. Where were you a decade ago when I needed that kinda smarts in my corner." Cristobal shakes his head ruefully, tipping back up his own beer, but thanks to the dark bottle it's impossible to tell how much he's actually drinking per swig. "Geez, one of the brothers in blue. I bet you've seen some SHIT man. But yeah, if you're earning enough in the force to bet that kinda scratch on baseball, I would've rethought my career path." He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. "C'mon, if you had something on the side, you'd hook a brother up, right? 'Cuz if I get my girl a new purse, she's bound to send me selfies of her and it and NOTHING else, and I'd share the love man."

"Not getting fucking caught stealing back a game," Liu says with a smug little smile. The flattery (and the beer) is a balm, and he easily agrees, "I see way too much shit for what I get paid." And then Cristobal lowers his voice and reels out that bait, Liu shifts his eyes. "Nah, man. You know, job keeps me busy. Don't have time for side-gigs." At least, that's what his mouth is saying, an instinctive sort of denial that's all proper. But his eyes are assessing Cristobal, looking him over, and the offer to share the selfies gets a guffaw from the guy. It's crass, but it seems to amuse him. So, after a moment, he says, "You know, I hear if you're looking, though, I might know a guy. If you're not picky." He flicks the rim of his bottle with a bottle. "I could maybe drop a line to him. Gotta phone number?"

"Nah man, you're way smarter than me. S'why I do dishes and catch bitches." Cris doesn't even blink as Liu denies side gigs at first, and not too eager when he finally says he might know a guy. "Shit, I ain't picky. I'm a hair short of desperate. I told you about those blow jobs, right?" He grins wide, "But my phone is one of those pay by the minute pieces of shit and I don't wanna miss this guy's call. Why don't you slip me his digits and I'll give him a ring myself, I'll just casually drop your name so he knows I'm legit. I mean, if you'll give it to me. Shit, manners. My abuela would kick my ass. I'm Ernesto." He wipes his hand on his pants to dry off the sweat from the beer bottle before he offers it over.

"Well, I guess you can't be too much of a loser if you're able to catch a bitch with master blowjob skills and Louis Vitton taste," Liu says. He hesitates at the response. But then there's a tinny little 'you're out!' from the phone and he looks down at the phone and swears for a minute straight. And doesn't repeat a word once, so he's clearly got SOME skillz. The offered hand he looked at, and then Liu blows out a breath, and takes the hand in a firm shake. "Ernesto. Hey. Harvey." He thinks about it, looks down at the game again. Maybe the words 'finder's fee' trip somewhere in his suddenly depressed brain. He says, "Sure. Why the fuck not? Don't wake him up at three fucking AM, mmkay? Business hours." And he rattles off the digits. "You're looking for Daryl. Whether he's looking for you? That's on you, man. Good luck." He shows him the final score. "Looks like both of us need it."

"Hey man, I'm Latino. All I gotta do is speak a little Es-Pan-Yola and the panties just DROP, I'm tellin' yah." There is a groan from Cris as the out is called, continuing the ruse that that hurts his wallet just as much as it does ole Liu. Cristobal mouths the numbers as if trying to commit them to memory, but whether or not it does, the recorder in his pocket should pick them up juuuuuust fine. After he gets that and the man's name? He lets the matter drop entirely. "Fuck that, what we both need is another beer. Another round on me?" It'd be suspicious just to get up and leave. "Least I can do for gnawing your ear off about my gash problem and spilling your beer." He's already raising his hand to get someone's attention.

Liu snickers. "Wish Mandarin did that. Instead you get fucking jokes about 'moon language' and asking if I know how to do karate." A thread of real bitterness there, for a moment - but the concept of free beer perks him right up. "Aw, man, you just lost a pot, too," he mutters. But he doesn't say no. And there's a waitress over to bring new beers pretty fast, and Liu is quick to drink that beer. "Thanks," he says, after the first swallow, and offers a grin. "And there's always the next game, right? I figure, luck has to turn around eventually? Maybe if I do a good deed," he points the bottle at Cris, "I get good fucking karma or some shit."

Cris snags up his refill, reaching over with the bottle to clink the bottom against the one Liu wields. "To motherfucking Karma." He says with a wide grin.

Liu grins. "Hell yeah, brother." But the flash of happy swagger is brief, as he settles in to do some hard drinking. He idly swipes at the screen of the phone, looking at some of the other games the app is reporting on, but he doesn't seem inclined to further chattiness as he works through his beer.

Cris knocks his knuckles on the table top, "Great to meet you man. I'm going to scope out that waitress by the bar some more. Maybe I'll get something else on the side tonight. Take it easy." And then Cris is slipping out of the booth to go to the bar under the pretense of finishing his drink. In reality, he just sticks around and takes a few more swigs, obligatorily checking out the waitress for a few minutes and then eventually goes to slip out the door, figuring Alexander will be behind him shortly.

Liu raises his bottle. "Go with God. Or, you know, the other guy." He barely looks up as Cris rises and makes his way over to the bar. Alexander stays in his seat until Cris heads towards the door, and then slinks after him, more tense than weaving through a bunch of drunks and almost-drunks really warrants. When he steps outside, his breath catches a few times, and he immediately looks for the other man, sidling over to him.

"He didn't shoot you. I knew you were the better choice," Alexander says, with a certain satisfaction. "What happened?"

"I take it that happens to you a lot." Cris grins at Alexander, the expression lopsided on his lips. "I just spoke his language, that's all. Got the name and the number of at least the next guy up the rungs, if not the guy who he's working for. So go team. Now will you please go home and say there. You're easier to protect if you sit the fuck still."

Alexander frowns. "...sometimes. Cops don't really like me," he admits, with a shrug. "Most cops. Especially the bad ones. Incompetent or corrupt. Don't usually shoot at me, though. Just mock me and occasionally arrest me." He holds his hand out expectantly. "Recorder. And you really don't have to follow me around. I'm not incapable of taking care of myself." A pause. "But if you're going to, then I'm gonna go see this guy. Not now. But soon." His flat black eyes study Cris' face.

"You know Kelly will make sure I'm shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if I give this recorder to you right now. So why don't you let me give it to him, and if he wants you to know what's on it, he'll have no problem passing that information on. But don't worry, I'll make sure you get your device back, Scout's fucking honor." Cris gets on that face that says he's not really open to listening arguments.

Alexander isn't a man who hides his emotions well, so the fury that contorts his features for a moment is something that could best be described as 'murderous'. "That's mine, Cruz," he says, each word precise and cutting, the volume not rising above conversation. The effort to hold himself back from simply lunging at the man is very clear in the tremble of his muscles. "It was my idea, it's my recorder, so give it back." He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out very slowly. Then adds, with no sincerity at all, "Please."

Cris' head tilts slightly, "Yeah, fuck, whatever. Gimme just a second to text it to myself."

(TXT to Joey) Cristobal : Got the info on Liu's boss. Clayton wants it too. Yay or nay?

Alexander's eyes narrow, watching him for a moment, and then he relaxes. Fractionally. "All right. That's fine." But he watches like a hawk, like he's afraid that Cristobal might run off with it and have to be chased down.

Cristobal waits a a few Mississippi's but there's not so much as a dancing three dots that appear that says Joey is even looking at his messages right now, much less responding. With a set to his jaw, he holds the recorder up to his ear and hits the playback, typing in Daryl's name and the number he was given into another message to Joey, thus saving it also for himself. He eyes Clayton and holds the recorder up over his head like he's holding a toy out of a child's reach. "I'll give you this back on one condition: you give me a heads up when you make a move so we can make sure someone's got your back. Not to mention our vested interest in this fellow needs to be honored. Agreed?"

Alexander does not jump for the recorder, although his eyes narrow and he watches it with all the focus of a cat who has a string dangled just out of reach. There are times when Alexander absolutely regrets not being one of the taller men in town. His hands twitch, but his dark gaze shifts back to Cristobal when he speaks. After a moment, there's a jerky, reluctant sort of nod. "Agreed. I will need your phone number," he points out, then extends his hand for the recorder. "But I'll give you notice when I go."

"And if you don't give Kelly the honors of deciding this asshat's fate, that'll be on you, not me. Just so we're clear." Cris says his peace and then flips on the recorder at the end of the Lui's section, voicing his own number in at the end. And then? He tosses the device at Alexander. Here's to hoping the man has quick hands. "Stay frosty, Clayton."

Alexander isn't bad. He's been watching the recorder like a hawk watching a rabbit, so when it flies through the air, he's ready to snatch it and slip it into his jacket pocket in a single, abrupt notion. "I don't work for Joseph Kelly," he mutters, but that's not exactly a 'no, fuck off', and he looks away, towards the Pourhouse. His shoulders slump. "Whatever happens, we're clear. It's on me. Not you." He turns and starts to walk away - on the bright side, he seems to be heading back towards Elm street. "I'll text you." No goodbye or other courtesy, but then, maybe he suspects Cristobal will be trailing him until he manages to get back home and retreat inside.