2020-09-18 - Awkward Around the Firepit

Those brilliant autumn evenings when the air is getting a little crispy and the water of the bay is getting a little cold(er), and it's just the right time to settle somewhere with a cold beer or a drink because the weather will not last, and the grey drizzle will start soon enough. The bay is still full of yachts; the boardwalk of tourists; and the Two if By Sea caters to anyone that wanders past. Local patrons still talk about the bar's actual owner as if he might stroll in some day. A lot of them probably hope that he still might.

Ravn's shift is coming to an end and bright yellow rubber gloves are exchanged for black kidskin ditto as he secures himself a seat on the patio and a cold beer. He likes staying after hours; the atmosphere is pleasant and it's not at all unusual for him to find himself engaged in casual conversation with somebody, be they a local patron or some out-of-towner like himself. The best way to get to know a town is to watch it at leisure, or at least so he tells himself.

There's a smattering of brave folk already parked out on the patio. Townies, for the most part; the tourists are zipped up in raincoats strolling the boardwalk with cell phones and colourful maps from the information centre in hand, or holed up inside with a beer. One such brave townie is the acting Chief of Police, slouched in a chair by the recently-lit firepit with a recently-lit cigarette between two tattooed fingers. Dollars to donuts whether anyone recognises him in that ratty hoodie (with the hood up), jeans with the torn knee (the edges of some kind of ink are visible) and his booted feet kicked up against the firepit's rim.

His gaze ticks over to the door when it slides open, and trails the Dane who wends his way past for a moment or three. Then a drag off his cigarette, and a glance back to his phone as a message comes in.

Odds are that at least one person of European descent does indeed not recognise the man in the hoodie; or maybe he's decided that even the sourly Mexican can be befriended. Either way, Ravn heads towards the firepit, beer in one gloved hand, drawing a few speculative looks from some of the locals. Most of the people who visit the bar frequently have by now clocked onto the fact that if the bloke in the black turtleneck and ditto blazer in fact is some kind of celebrity chef, he's pretty damned adamant about not acting it. Some of them leave him alone out of respect for his wishes. A lot of them probably leave him alone because they're still convinced that the's the Swedish equivalent to Gordon Ramsay, and they don't want to be forced to clap a slice of toast on each ear and designate themselves an idiot sandwich.

Either way, the Dane settles across from the (acting? so confused now) Chief of Police with a nod to the other man. "Evenin'."

Magnolia has every intention to walk past the Two if by Sea, letting the last bit of sunshine that the PNW has in it wash over her. As if suspecting that the sunshine will rapidly turn toward rain, she wears her bright teal raincoat with a rainbow embroidered on the back. She has her hands in her pockets, and her head down. But then she looks up, as if she catches a glimmer of something out of the corner of her eye. She catches sight of Ravn--unfamiliar--and Ruiz--familiar. To the latter, she upnods as she starts toward the patio in a lazy half-turn. "Chief."

No doubt the same people who figure Ravn for a world famous Swedish chef are the same ones convinced de la Vega's the actual Chief, appointed overnight by the Mayor in a stunning turn of affairs that probably points to him either sleeping with an Addington (well, he was at one point, wasn't he? Erin or something?) or involved in some other kind of corruption (probably a given). He mostly ignores it, though Magnolia's greeting reminds him that he's a, "Captain," before reaching for a sip of his tequila.

Once he's swallowed, set the glass back down, and taken a full drag of his cigarette - along with his measure of the man who's seated himself opposite - he finally deigns to offer mildly to Ravn, "Hello."

Ravn in turn upnods to the woman in the teal raincoat as she approaches. He has no idea who she is but being polite is tax free, as they say in his home country. He's a tall, copper blond bloke whose main characteristic seem to be wearing black from top to toe. From the looks of him, a city boy -- the sort you'd probably expect to find haunting the coffee houses of Seattle, each of them hoping to be the next Steve Jobs. He seems quite content to sample the IPA with a colourful label he's holding in one gloved hand and lean back a little, just watching the patio and the people upon it. "Hope you don't mind my taking a seat. Or, you know, tell me to keep walking if you do."

"Are you sure?" Magnolia flashes Ruiz that lopsided smile that just lightly crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Sounds like the town split on that little issue." And naturally, Ms. Jones is all sarcastic quip in the face of what appears to be a serious situation in Gray Harbor. She climbs up onto the patio, and her hands slip free of the patio to pull out a chair so she can claim a seat near the Captain. She doesn't even ask if it is okay; she's tired after her hike all around the town doing whatever it is that Magnolia does.

No, of course not, don't mind if she does. Not that Ruiz looks inclined to move his feet from their incredibly rude, propped-up position on the edge of the firepit. His two companions can deal, or move on, presumably. "Estoy bastante seguro," he murmurs, tonguetip touched to a canine as he finishes checking something on his phone, and shoves it back into his jeans pocket. Then in an effort to be marginally less angry looking cholo who might shank you in a dark alley, he tugs his hood off, ignoring the scruffy curls that sit obstinately askew in the wake of it. Ravn's beer is gestured at with his cigarette. "You actually going to drink that meada?" No comment on taking a seat or buggering off, though he's probably perfectly capable of telling him so, if that's his preference.

"Yep. And if it's half as awful as I expect it to be, I'm going to go pick up a scotch to wash it down. Gotta know my repertoire -- even if just to tell Bennie to please just knife that salesman out back next time he comes by." He's got an accent that wouldn't be entirely off key for some British boarding school boy. Then he throws a lopsided little smile at the other new arrival and says, "Hello. Ravn Abildgaard, resident hipster beer taster. It's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it."

"Magnolia Jones," Mags offers up, stretching out a hand with her characteristic boldness. "And I have the same kind of employment." Beat. "PI. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it." Mention of Bennie does have her glancing slightly to the door of the bar before she settles back into her seat again. She looks like she might ask where Bennie is, but then she settles a bit more quietly into herself instead. She waits around for someone to come by to ask for a drink, and all she orders is a Sprite. She glances toward Ruiz. "You look gloomy, Cap. This old town getting you down?"

Ruiz has nothing more to offer on the loathsomeness that is IPA. Out loud, anyway. Chances are, he's thinking plenty with that slanted look he's giving the other guy. American beer, man. Another swig of his tequila, chased by a drag off his kretek, and his dark eyes flick back to Magnolia when she mentions him looking gloomy. He makes a bit of a moue with his mouth. "Nothing more than the usual." Surely she's heard the rumours. Thatchery's been offed, he's been battlefield promoted, half his department's turned on him, criminals offing criminals, corrupt cops. What the hell's the city coming to? "Where've you been? Missed your pretty face around here." He gives her a little wink, and flicks some ash off the end of his cigarette. "Thought you might've left us. Would've been better for you, if you had."

"I did wonder about that," the other man murmurs and does indeed make a face when he finally tastes the bottle with the very colourful micro-brewery label. "Folks calling you Chief. Rosencrantz was pretty adamant on it being captain though. Good to meet you, Magnolia Jones."

He leans back a little and looks at the sky; not quite prepared to put his feet up the way de la Vega does but nonetheless quite relaxed and clearly at home in his surroundings. Maybe it's the way the server bringing the Sprite out nods at him; maybe it's just that it's a lovely autumn day, or at least what's left of one. Some people are just annoyingly content with life.

Her Sprite arrives just a few minutes later, and someone has put a slice of lime in it. She squints toward the doors, her suspicion obvious, but then she's focusing back on Ravn and Ruiz. She props her feet up on the fireside hearth, and she leans her head back a bit while she rubs her fingertips across the condensation of the glass. She looks over at Ruiz. "Sometimes in this town, you need to put your head down for a few months. Things were getting..." She clears her throat. "Rough." She looks down into her glass before she takes a pull from the straw. "We got out of town for the summer... Kevin, Lark, and I... went to Oregon. I have a client that owed me a big favor, and he has a beach house. We settled in for a little bit." She starts to rub one shoe against the other in an awkward, and relatively new tic.

Ruiz glances from Magnolia's face, to her hand, following the path of condensation being cleared from her glass. And then to her shoes as one rubs against the other repetitively. "But you came back," he notes, low-voiced. No matter how much he tries to erase it, the accent creeps back in. The musicality of his old, timeworn tongue taught by his parents and shouted in the streets, until the American school system tried to smooth it away. And failed, evidently.

To Ravn, with a gesture of his nearly-empty glass, "Folks will believe whatever fucking suits them," before downing the last of it with a bob of his adam's apple. The waitress is summoned with a hitch of his chin and a brief moment's eye contact; she already knows what he wants, and hustles off to get it.

"Believe me, I've noticed. Doesn't mean I can't try to get it right, though." Ravn hitches a shoulder and puts the beer down; the waitress gets a look from him too, and some kind of silent communication passes between them -- at least she picks the bottle up on her way out. Then he leans back a little and just watches the scenery, seemingly quite content to let other people do the talking and just watching -- no one in particular, or everyone. It's all a matter of perspective.

"Yup... Backstreet's Back, Alright." Magnolia almost half-sings that lyric, but not with any real melody beyond that slight, whispering hint. Instead, she is too busy worrying at herself with her toes scrunching in her surprisingly clean Converse sneakers. No Lark drawings on them, no dragons or dinosaurs, or rainbows. Just light gray canvas and white rubber. She looks up at Ruiz, and then looks away again with a bit more haste. Instead, she latches on the less-familiar Ravn. "Hey... getting it right is half the fun... but you're going to find it's hard as fork to actually get the right answer most of the time."

Letting other people do the talking might just be a futile endeavour where de la Vega's concerned. In stark contrast to the two men he tends to keep company with, he is very much not a chatterbox. Nor, as it appears, terribly socially inclined in the broadest sense. There's a slight unease in the company of others; a tension that's here one moment, gone the next. An awkwardness to the way he tries to smile, and it isn't insincere so much as almost.. shy. Maybe that's what the tequila's for.

"How old. How old's your girl, now? Lark. She's got to be.." Well, he's not entirely sure. His eyes crease up heavily at the corners as he squints, as he tries to think about that. Ash tapped off the end of his cigarette, the tendons in his wrist and fingers working under the heavy scrawl of dark ink as he continues to watch Magnolia's shoes.

"I'm the new kid, in a new town, in a new country." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile to Magnolia. "I expect to get most things wrong all the time, and then pat myself on the back when I accidentally don't." From the one of his voice he's a pretty quiet fellow too, though not quite as taciturn as the police captain. If anything, he seems the slightly awkward sort; but then, he already gives pretty mixed signals, with his black on black ensemble and kidskin gloves reaching for that straight up bourbon the waitress brings out along with de la Vega's order.

"Physically? Seven. Mentally? I want to say somewhere in her thirties. That's when everyone gets jaded right?" Magnolia takes another drink from her Sprite, her cheeks sucking in briefly with the sheer depth of that swallow. Then she coughs once, clears her throat, and offers Ruiz a weak smile. "Her and Vin get along like two peas, though. Pretty sure they're going to take over the world together... Kevin is obviously the sidekick in that villainous duo." To Ravn, she tilts her head with a brush of her bangs across her forehead. "Well, you start having weird-ass Dreams yet that feel a bit too real? Once that happens, you definitely got to say something because the one thing we lack in this town is a proper Outsider Seminar on Gray Harbor."

Seven. The number's cogitated on for a little while, and one can almost see the gears turning in the cop's head. Like, what does a seven year old act like? As if he'd know. What the hell would qualify a man like this, to know a thing like that? "Gracias," murmured to the waitress who stops by with his drink, and the smile he gives her prompts a lingering look in return before the girl vanishes.

His booted feet are finally withdrawn from the edge of the firepit, and thumped down one at a time to rest on the planked deck. Knees spread apart, elbows draped against his thighs, he alternately watches his companions, and the fading daylight smudging its way across the horizon.

The Dane seems quite content to listen, even if he presumably knows nothing of the children in question. He sips the bourbon he was given and makes a face that speaks volumes about washing the taste of horrible hipster beer off his palate. The waitress does not throw lingering looks at him; the familiarity between them seems to be of a far more, well, professional nature. He's probably just a regular patron.

"Hadn't been here a week yet when I got my first taste of Gray Harbor's rather unique approach to tourist entertainment," Ravn murmurs after a moment. "Had a few more -- experiences -- since then. Not sure what you'd want me to say about it, though -- it's terrifying but also absolutely fascinating."

"Unique approach to tourist entertainment," Magnolia repeats slowly, almost thoughtfully. She turns to glance at Ruiz. "We have an approach to tourist entertainment?" Then the PI huffs out a short breath, and she sets down the glass on the table with an empty clink. Then she goes back to rubbing her knuckles, passing over bare fingers even if she spends sometime rubbing at her ring finger. "The fascinating bit wears off after a while, and then all you're left with the terrifying." Her words are a bit bitter, and dark at the edges. Her lips press together, and then she glances over toward Ruiz. "But, make friends... friends will help you out." She glances back to the Dane, as the words are for him even if she had been looking at Ruiz at the time.

"Fuck if I know," is the captain's eloquent grunt in reply, to the question about tourist entertainment. "Entertaining for them, or for us?" Could be that smile's a bit wolfish. The one he finally gives Magnolia, when she turns to glance at him. Or it could be her imagination. Probably her imagination. His phone buzzes again, and he swallows some more tequila before digging it out, and cursing floridly in Spanish. "I've got to go. It was nice seeing you again." That might be aimed at either of them or both of them. He tosses back the remainder of his drink, puts out his smoke on the edge of the firepit, and shoves back to his feet with a soft hiss at something or other acting up.

"Most people I have met in this town are very kind." Ravn sips his bourbon and looks at the stars, partially hidden by the clouds that promise less gentle weather. When he tacks on a few more words, his voice is quiet, almost apologetic. "People here -- at least some of them -- actually seem to care what happens to other people. Gray Harbor is pretty hellish. But at least you're not alone -- I suppose that counts for something. Or maybe it doesn't count for anything and I'm just a naive newcomer. I like it here."

He looks up as de la Vega gets up. "Take care, Captain."

Magnolia kicks her feet off the side of the hearth, and she looks up at Ruiz. "Mind your Shine, Captain." Then she is pushing out of her own seat, setting down her empty glass and a five dollar bill. She nods to the Dane. "Yours, too." Then she starts to drift. "If you need anything, Ravn... just look up Sneakers Investigations. Happy to help make sure your face doesn't get eaten." She flashes him a genuine, dimpled smile as she slips back out into the early autumn evening.