2020-09-04 - Let's Talk About 'Cutting Losses'

(TXT to Joey) Ruiz : Jonas and Latkowski. What are they worth to you?

(TXT to Ruiz) Joey : (video link to Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani is linked)

(TXT to Ruiz) Joey : Worth to me You trying to bust my ass for human trafficking now? Fuck you. You don't get to cut me off and then need something, asshole.

(TXT to Joey) Ruiz : The fuck makes you think I need anything from you, Kelly. I'm doing you a favour here. You want to meet up somewhere and hash this out, or not?

(TXT to Ruiz) Joey : Well you know here I am. Your piglets have been parked across the street for like a day and a half now. Nice try. Kinda obvious.

(TXT to Joey) Ruiz : They're not mine. I don't have any fucking reason to keep eyes on you right now, if even I had the manpower to do it.

(TXT to Joey) Ruiz : Anyway, I haven't had dinner yet. You feel like ribs?

(TXT to Ruiz) Joey : Gotta get a lint brush first

Presumably that's slag for 'ditch the dirty fuzz'.

(TXT to Joey) Ruiz : Just figure your shit out, Kelly. I'll see you there in twenty.

Joey decides to take the back door and just sneak out of the gym by the back door and- the fucking plain clothes is standing right there. Well, so much for subtle. His hand goes up and hooks to the top of the neighbor's fence and a jog through the rusted out asshole of the city that is Elm's Industrial side begins. At first they have some ground, but he grew up in here and doors open and close when he wants them too and stay shut behind him for a bit. Fancy that. Eventually he gets far enough across town he drops in o one of his guys and commandeers his ride to kick over to Ronnie's Rib Ranch (wasn't it the Rib Shack before?) where he pulls up in a car that is still not his. He waits in the car and scopes the place before walking inside. This is bait. Probably. It feels like he's being baited. He looks for De of the Tijuana la Vegas. Itzhak put a few words in his ear. Maybe he's listening? He's still not being reckless.

Nope. Not being baited. Not unless de la Vega's playing that long game he's so fond of. And not unless that long game involves a full rack of hickory smoked ribs and a couple of chilled beers, serendipitously on their way to being delivered to the table as Joey scopes the place from outside. The acting Chief is checking messages on his phone as the food arrives; and perhaps somewhat less obviously, doing a little circuit of windows and doors and anyone who looks remotely like they might be a plant or carrying a weapon. Outwardly, he's relaxed, but those big, slouched shoulders hide a deceptive tension. In keeping with the rain that's been on and off all day, he's opted for his battered leather jacket over the tee shirt and jeans and combat boots. It makes the fact that he's packing his Sig today a little less obvious, too.

Joey comes in from the kitchen in his usual; too tight t-shirt because swole but not an ape is a hard fit, andd jeans that look like they might be the same pair he's had for the last decade. He's not broken a sweat but for what it's worth he is clearly unarmed by civilian standards. He's giving hte Captain the dead eye when one of the fry cooks comes up and says "Oh hey, coach Kelly, I got a note for Tommy's PT that clears him for playing Thursday."

Joey takes a deep breath and rolls a look upward exhaling a Chriiiist. He answers but doesn't take his eyes off the cop. "Cool. Tell him to bring it with him to school tomorrow. We'll make sure his foot stays attached this time." And off the line cook goes. Sigh. So much for a shit ton of thunder. all these rumors made Joey a ...civilian? And he's rolling with it!? Does Joey know!?!

He's heard, of course, about Coach Kelly and his double life. Not that he buys it. The question is why the gang boss is playing along like he has been, unless some part of him gets something out of it. Pretending to have a normal fucking life, elevating kids that maybe don't have anyone else out there rooting for them. Having something else to get him up in the morning that isn't accounts payable off of a guy who's got nothing to pay up with except his life.

"Hey, Kelly," murmurs the cop with a flick of dark eyes that takes in the younger man, and his slightly disheveled state. He pauses a moment, then nudges out the chair opposite him with his boot. "Have a seat. Good timing, food just got here." He sets his phone aside, reaches for one of the beers and cracks it open.

Joey really had had warmer and fuzzier days. The arctic wind that comes with him is notable and their last conversation still fresh in his phone. "So they did." He didn't run halfway across town to be pissy. He is hungry, but he's a stray dog with some damn pride. Reconsiling that he drops into his seat and watches Ruiz trying to understand what the fuck they're doing here.

Eating, of course. De la Vega's hungry, too. Stray dogs, the pair of them, and every stray knows that any meal might well be their last. "Eat," he murmurs, before shrugging out of his jacket, lowering his head and digging in. Nothing, for now, is offered on the subject of either Jonas or Latkowski. If this is indeed anything to do with either of them.

And that's just what Joey's worried about. it projects not because Ruiz is a fucking psychic, it's because they were raised on the same street and speak the same language of self-survival. It's enough that he looks out to the parking lot again looking for the rest of them or maybe, just maybe, it's the Sig he's concerned about. Well. Maybe that's how it's gonna be. Last meal. Who the fuck knows. Nothing in the town adds up and Joey's never comfortable unless he's the bottom of the barrel. means the town's gone sour. Taking a deep breath, tired at the fucking soul he wonders quietly to himself when his fucking panic response sounds like a Noir gangster film. Fuck you Gray Harbor. He reaches over and pulls ribs onto his plate in taciturn silence.

Silence it is then, for the measure of minutes. Some shitty country music is playing on the radio, like the girl behind the counter doesn't know that in backwater PNW towns, you don't play that kind of shit. And nobody has the heart to complain about it, least of all Javier.

He tosses the fourth bone onto his plate, and goes to clean his fingers off, then his mouth and beard in his usual unhurried fashion. Then a glance up at the younger man across from him. "Jonas has been skimming money from you for the last six months. Money that was supposed to go to that women's shelter you were sponsoring, and money that was supposed to go to Monaghan. I looked into his financials for you. You're fucking welcome." Something's pulled out of his jacket pocket, a folded envelope. It's unfolded and tossed across the table to Joey. Inside, proof of his claims. Bank records, a few incriminating photographs, some emails God only knows how he got his hands on. It's pretty damning.

Joey takes the envelope and scans through it once he wipes his fingers from sauce and tosses the napkin on the table next to hi plate. If he's looking for a reaction? Well Joey just got 'got'. There's feelings in there subtle and close to his chest, but there: More people fucking betraying him. Fan*fukkity*tastic.

Looking up he squints, almost accusingly at Ruiz but actually asks, "What's your angle on this? What's in this for you?" Hurt something it learns to distrust the hand. Such a bridge burned and a lot of trust broken. "Hoping all the bottom feeders go after one another? What's up?"

"What the fuck do you think's in it for me?" Javier counters, leaning back in his seat, and lifting his bottle of beer to his mouth for a swig. His dark eyes are trained on the man across from him, and he catches the stricken look, plain as day. Swallows his mouthful of beer and slides the bottle away again before getting to work on more ribs. "I've got my marching orders like you've got yours. I'm giving you a heads up, that's all. I owe you that much, yeah?"

The next rib bone clatters onto his plate. "Latkowski's fucking slime. Looks clean, as far as his paper trail goes, but I had one of my men keep an eye on him. He spends a lot of time at the, uh.. Cabaret. Strip joint. Treats the girls like shit, and he's got two dropped charges of sexual assault against him." They both know why charges of sexual assault wind up getting dropped. For whatever reason, de la Vega's jaw hardens at this.

Joey just flips through the papers with a squint and sighs. "Can't trust fuckin anyone anymore." Green eyes snap up his head tilts and while he's inherited his half of some damn fine cheekbones it tells a very different profile with his jaw clenched like that. "And what's your orders cause last I heard you old us all out and went rogue. I don't..." Taking a deep breath he sits back in his booth, "You know I am pissed at you and that I haven't sent hounds on your ass is because I actually keep my promise man."

Two more ribs demolished, the meat torn off the bone and the sauce sopped off his fingers with lips and tongue. He eats like an animal, like he's let a little of that human mask drop, and let his true self come out. That raggedy old wolf hunting the tundra, looking for easy prey to cut down, and tear from limb to limb in quick and bloody warfare.

"Didn't fucking sell anyone out. Monaghan owned Thatchery, not the GHPD. Thatchery's dead, and the new shitbag in town made a play for me. Turns out he's not completely fucking stupid." So the old wolf's gone to ground, and opted to play the long game. The strategic game. Sniff this guy out, see what makes him tick. Find out where his edges are, his soft spots, how to take him down. Joey knows him well enough to know in his bones that this is what de la Vega's doing, even if he doesn't say so in words. Even if he can't.

"I'm not sure your boys are going to get their Christmas bonuses this year," he murmurs, reaching for his beer again, voice low. "I'm sorry about that." He does sound sincere.

Joey leans to the side setting the envelope down on teh table, still resting in hand, this face resting in opposite palm. A sigh wills his chest with a rare expressiveness at the apology. "Fuuuuuck this shit we have a meet on Thursday. I cannot do this right now. Fuck.." He really truly is taking this gym coach thing seriously? Will wonders ever cease.

""He need a job or what? Who is it? Your people or his people?" Joey knows he's playing ball on this one and really he is almost entirely likely to be pissed that he has to more than the actual doing part.

At the your people, Javier's eyes tick up, dark to green, and a sliver of disgust rifles through them. A beat passes between the two men, and then another. And then he goes to tear open another packet of wet napkins, and clean his fingers off. "You don't need to do anything. In exchange for my good fucking will-" Is that what they're calling this, now? "-all I need from you is to keep your fucking mouth shut about this. Entiendo, cabron?"

Joey mumbles into his hand, "I don't have a goddamn Entenmann's, I don't speak fucking Spanish, and I know you called me an asshole. Don't think I dunno that." It' frustrating really. Shit, his English is highly questionable at best. "Just leasve the two assholes on the outskirts alone." Shaking his head he informs, "Burko's mine. I'm gettin him back but He is going to lose Lil Antony. I know he sold out Cris that time they took my car. I'm taking care of it. And then? I'm a find that guy and beat his ass and then force feed him to the mother fucker that told him to do it." Here's hoping it's a figure of speech. Sitting back he says, "Not on Monday or Thursdays. We got practice and Homecoming game. Anyone shows up trying to do business around the school I'm going El Ducce on their ass."

"Cabron," Javier repeats, mouth twitching at the corners like he might smile, then seems to think better of it. "Yeah, it means asshole. And plenty of other things, besides." In all fairness, he's used it to refer to Joey on plenty of occasions, and generally in a fond sort of way. "I won't touch them," he promises, low-voiced. A flick of his eyes to the door as someone enters. He checks to see whether they're carrying, seems satisfied that they're not, and his gaze travels back to Joey. "Fine. No Mondays or Thursdays." He says nothing about the school, or people showing up to do business. If Joey thinks that's even remotely his style.. well, he doesn't know de la Vega all that well. And he most surely does, so.

"Just have anyone you don't want involved, keep their distance, the next little while. Yeah? I don't want this to get uglier than it has to." His tone sounds tired, resigned as he digs his wallet out and tosses a few crumpled bills on the tabletop to pay for their food and drink.

Joey is not worried about Ruiz so much as he was the Reyes component. If anything it's a tipoff for his own if/than statement. Joey's at least one to let him know what to expect for the catalysts out there. Less of a threat or accusation and more of a if they get dumb don't stand on the goddamn lawn because I'm setting fire to it.

"Yeah. Send em all away." There's an odd smile that's a bit lacking in any joy, "Nothing left to send away. What's that saying man? The only ghosts left standing are our own? Some old depressing Scottish dude wrote it. Weirdly that I remember from tenth grade Lit." The money hits the table next to the bowl that's a bone yard and there is a small nod. He's not about to tank the man that drop kicked his trust from here to Tuscon, but he'll allow it as a truce for an hour.
Whether that's a start or an end time will tell, but he doesn't have bracelets on, and he's going home standing.

It's a start.