2020-10-15 - Nosey New Neighbors

It's afternoon, just past the rush hour chaos, and the diner is still recovering. Three waitresses - a lanky redhead with a mohawk that looks barely past high school and straight out of a 1980s London punk picture, a tired, round-faced fortysomething and a mousy brunette all have waiter's aprons on and work on clearing tables and tidying up, chatting about how rude some customers can be - in perfectly audible tones to most of the scattered customers. The customers being currently a struggling father with a baby, toddler, child AND teen who looks like he wants to cry, a trio of exhausted looking nurses, two teens cuddling and inflicting PDA on the room, and an old woman reading a novel. A twentysomething college student (college hoodie and all) plays on her phone at the register, and sitting at the counter is one purple-haired woman with a gold and black smokey eye, dark red lips, black skinny jeans, and a cropped black tee beneath a sheer black shirt beneath a red flannel button-up, currently reading one of those magazines that seriously discusses the movement of Lizardmen and Grays and the reason the government is collecting children's teeth and propagating myths of the tooth fairy.

The music today is also... surprisingly normal late 1990s/early 2000s jams.

There's something about the Black Bear Diner that draws a certain Danish guy in spite of the fact that he ends up cut down to size every damn time he goes there (and in one case, seriously questioning his life choices after having eaten the place's infamous omelette). The food there -- the rest of it -- really is quite good. It's not too far from his sail boat which he is still prepping for winter. And on some level he's always finding himself wondering what indignities Gina the diner owner might be subjecting her customers to at any given notice.

Curiosity killed the cat. But at least the cat may die well fed.

And thus, Ravn wanders past in the afternoon, avoiding the lunch rush as well as the evening rush. A tall, copper blond fellow in a black turtleneck, leather jacket, jeans and boots, carrying a copy of the Gray Harbor Gazette under one arm. He slinks in and heads for the counter quite unnoticed, glancing at the teenagers and shaking his head with a small smile. He navigates his way past the love birds, the nurses, and the hassled family to ask, "I don't suppose I could have a sandwich and a cup of coffee, black, hold the strychnine?"

As ever, just when you think the rush is dying down and you might get a chance to clean down and maybe relax a bit, somebody opens a new box of customers. Not two minutes after Ravn enters, a relatively slim south asian woman slips through the door. Or not exactly 'slips' so much, as she first tries pushing one door, finds it doesn't move, pulls it to similar effect, moves on to the other, pushes, and finally ends up after four attempts actually managing to open the door. It is not an auspicious start.

Once inside, she takes a moment or two to at least inspect, if not actually admire the bear memorabilia, then at a squall from one of the children decides on a booth as far in the opposite direction as possible.

Normally, if one walks into a restaurant, there's a friendly staff member who will smile and ask you to wait a moment before they come to help. In many diners, there's a staff member who will tell you whether to take a seat or wait. In the Black Bear Diner, the trio of staff on the floor glance in the direction of the door as the door's bell rings, before going right back to doing what they're doing, the girl at the register doesn't acknowledge anything but her IG as she tries to pose with one of the terrible bear paintings just behind the register, and Gina - purple haired magazine-reader - doesn't even glance up until Ravn is already asking his question. And she still doesn't after, just keeps reading whatever article she's on and comments, "So thallium instead? Just for you, hot stuff. What kind of sandwich, or you want to leave that to the chef?" She finally seems to read whatever article it was, rises, straightening-- and glanes idly in Ifra's direction. Does she watch the woman for perhaps a second too long? Maybe. But then she's turning to grab the notepad and write down the order.

Perhaps it's that second-too-long glance that in turn draws Ravn's grey eyes for a moment, looking at the newest arrival in a fashion that seems almost -- evaluating? He only looks for a second before turning back to the colourful waitress. "I never did manage to get pastrami the other day, do you think you can manage? Let the chef do his or her thing on what goes with it -- the pear and brie sandwich certainly did not disappoint."

Then he wanders away from the counter again and, with a glance to the troubled family scene, wanders over to the very same table that Ifra picked. "I don't suppose you can spare a chair? I can guard yours while you order -- it'll be a cold day in Hell before you see anyone come down to take your order, you'll have to go up there. This place is a little... special. Food's good, though."

He's got an obvious accent; European, no doubt. Somewhere that really wishes it could sound like a BBC speaker. It needs to wish harder.

"I don't suppose there's a menu?" Ifra asks, having already exhausted all other options even as far as moving the little metal container that should probably contain napkins and at one point probably did, the wire basket of condiments, and a business card that's been left behind. None of these are menus. She gives her unexpected booth companion a wary, hopeful smile. "Or would you recommend something? I could eat a scabby donkey between two mattresses right now."

"I didn't know your ex was around, birdboy. All this flirting in public." Gina scribbles on her notepad, sending one order back before she pours a cup of coffee, black, and wanders to the counter edge closest to the table Ifra and Ravn sit, setting down the coffee mug-- and a menu.

The menu is.. bear shaped. Like a bear silhouette, the bear on all fours, the spine being where the spine of the menu is. They're faintly sticky in the ways all laminated menus are, and probably all shoved in a bucket of water every six months and that's three months away, and there's no alcohol on the menu.

"Dunno if you can trust him to pick out food, though." Gina honestly doesn't sound like she cares, she just waves for Ravn to pick up his coffee-- and the menu. Because he's being conscripted to hand the menu off. Like Gina's gonig to make THAT much effort. "He heard what the worst item on the menu was and immediately wanted to try it. SKetchy as fuck judgement there. You want something to drink?" That, to Ifra.

"And you'll note that in deference to my poor judgement I've let you pick out food for me every time since," the tall fellow returns with good humour. He passes the menu on without comment. "I pride myself in learning from my mistakes. That said, people here recommend the Impossible Burger and warn you that it's better to get on the next bus out of town than go near the omelette. Which is of course why I had to try it."

Ifra takes the menu with a naive trust, regretting it soon thereafter as she sets it down and tries to surreptiously wipe her hands clean down the sides of her jeans. "Coffee, please and thank you," she requests without even needing to look at the menu for that part, flashes a smile to Gina, then with a quick glance down the menu simply nods. "And an Impossible burger, and fries, and can I get the pickles on the side? And..." she continues, gaze working its way down the menu, "some onion rings?"

She would probably continue to order if a buzzing noise didn't distract her, and she turns to dig in her bag for her phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe of one finger before glancing to the message and smirking. "What's the address here?" she asks Ravn, ready and waiting to type it in, thumbs poised.

You know what'd really make Gina's day? A couple of cops rolling into her diner. One of them's fairly recognisable as such, given that he's in uniform; he's a fairly hefty black guy with Sergeant's pins on his collar and the GHPD patch on his sleeve. He's talking up a storm with his buddy as they amble inside, a somewhat older and comparatively less bulky Hispanic fellow in civilian attire. Built more like a hunter, thick through the shoulders, clearly takes his gym time seriously as well as his donuts. He's got a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, a battered leather jacket thrown over his faded tee and dark, snug jeans, and mostly seems content to listen with some amusement while his partner tells a bawdy joke.

Gina writes down the order, and as she's not the one being asked the address, she simply goes to get the order started, sighing as she collects her magazine along the way and stores it away for now. It looks like she actually has to WORK now. Another cup of coffee is poured, and - GASP - Gina actually walks out to deliver the coffee. See what could have been, Ravn?! A glance towards the arriving police officers, but just a glance before she goes back to the counter, "You two want coffee too? Talk now while I'm getting myself one or Lora will lecture you on why caffeine kills." Gina calls towards the police officers, indeed pouring herself a cup of coffee and adding caramel sauce to it. LOra, the selfie-taking college girl on the register, throws Gina a dark look and gives her the finger, before smiling at the police officers and going back to her phone.

"Black Bear Diner," Ravn replies to Ifra's question. "I'm not certain of the street address, actually. Gray Harbor's one of those towns where everyone knows everyone, everywhere knows where everyone lives, and if you ask for directions you get something like go down Elm Street, then turn right at the red house that Uncle Joe used to live in, that was back when Aunt Emmy still had those goldfish, you remember the preserves she used to make, anyhow, you need to read the sign by the pine tree and then it's just up the hill."

He takes a breath. "Anyhow. Ravn Abildgaard. Also new in town, been here a month and a half. It's asking for an address, by the way. That tells me that you're new here too."

And in behind the cops by a minute or so (maybe because he saw them coming in and decided to dawdle so he wouldn't come in with them, that might be weird, it might not but IT MIGHT), Itzhak strolls in, looking a little tired and a little frazzled. The Dreams have been thick on the ground lately, and the lighthouse-beacon of his Song means he gets pulled into them quite a lot.

"'Ey yo, Moretti, Cap!" Nonetheless he offers each of the LEOs a fistbump. Ruiz's is paired with a hitch of his chin and his eyebrows, ever so slightly 'how YOU doin', though he didn't really mean to. Itzhak slings himself on up to the counter, shoulderbumps Ravn, offers Gina a dazzling if tired-and-frazzled smile...and there's someone new here and all this effusive New Yorker bullshit charm gets turned on Ifra for a moment. "I hear Abildgaard say you're new in town?" This makes the difference between a tourist or someone passing through: 'new in town'.

Ifra begins to type into her phone, then lowers it and her gaze at Ravn when an actual, genuine street address is not forthcoming. "I somehow doubt he'll be able to find it just by name. Never mind." Thumbs dart across her phone's screen as she begins to pass on this unfortunate news to whoever's on the other end, then the phone is flipped over, set down on the table away from the most obvious of sticky patches, and she looks up to this lively greeting.

"Uh, yeah," she agrees, nonplussed by the attention from both men. "Just moved in. Still waiting for the new stove to be installed, hence..." and she waves an arm about her to take in the bear-themed surroundings. "Ifra Hossain," she offers simply, giving both a short nod as though that ought to be enough for them.

"Fill me up, hot stuff," the big black cop, whose nametag reads F. Moretti, tells Gina with an exaggerated wink. Then he goes to lean against the counter, and elbows his buddy the acting Chief, who's detaching his earpiece in anticipation of being off duty for the evening. "What'd you figure 'bout those suits that came in from Seattle this morning, huh? All kinds of rumours flyin' around they're goin' to take over the investigation into the Chief's murder." He starts fidgeting with a salt and pepper shaker, gaze tracking toward the incoming mechanic, and a meaty fist offered in solidarity.

Meanwhile, de la Vega's erring on the side of a no to coffee, given that his last adventure in caffeination here was a little.. tepid. Literally. "Rosencrantz," is his curt greeting to the man. A slap on the shoulder in lieu of a fistbump, eye contact sought and held for a moment. And then raked briefly, assessingly over Ifra, when Itzhak's focus is snagged by her.

Gina's look to Moretti is wholly unimpresssed, but he gets his coffee. Steaming hot, with a gesture towards the creamer and sugar located over there. No one expects Gina to fetch condiments! She doesn't bat an eyelash at the news of idea of 'suits from Seattle' though she does give a second glance towards Ruiz & Moretti, gives a small snort of amusement, and then looks towards Ifra, "This town is packed full of nosy as fuck people who classify themselves as "friendly." Airquotes. "You've been warned. Slap 'em all if you want: I won't say shit." Gina you realize the police are right there don't you? Don't you? Probably. "Rosencratz, you ordering while I'm here? Otherwise you deal with Lora too."

"... Ow." Ravn rubs his shoulder where the New Yorker bumped against it; wasn't even that hard, either. He nods at all three men -- including the police officer he's not seen before -- and scoots over in the booth in case anyone decides to settle there.

"She's not wrong, though." He nods towards Gina. "About people being nosy. Just, most of the people here actually are pretty friendly as far as small towns go. You've found a place to stay then? One that isn't what the locals refer to as the 'murder motel', that is. First two things people warned me against here -- the murder motel, and Gina's omelettes."

Apparently, a certain level of banter is to be expected here. Or maybe this is just Ravn and Gina flirting, who knows.

Itzhak meets Ruiz's gaze, soulful and tired, for just that moment, while the two of them are looking into each other's eyes. Then he shutters away all the complicated internal workings, goes back to being a loudmouth showoff. "Nice ta meetcha!" to Ifra. "I'm Rosencrantz. Itzhak. What brings you to town?" He tags on his first name like an afterthought. "Hey, can I help it if I'm nosy?" That's to Gina, and obviously refers to the magnificent hook of a beak the guy's got on him. "Yeah, I'm ordering, but Lora don't scare me." And Lora gets a wink, peak-obnoxious. He does order though, while listening to Moretti talk about investigators from Seattle.

To Ravn, he makes a face when his friendly shoulder-bump gets an ow. "What, ya hurt ya shoulder?" 'Hurt' comes out as 'hoit' in that rasping, abrasive New York accent.

With an amused look towards Gina, Ifra nods and settles back in her seat in place of slapping anyone just yet. "I'll look it up in case I decide a spot of murder would pass the time while I wait for my new stove, I guess." A glance towards the two police officers, just in case they decide to rise to that one. "It's one way to deal with global overpopulation, but I just got new boots and I don't want to have to clean the blood off them."

Itzhak's question earns him a dubious look, but she's got manners enough to reply. "Just bought a house here. Seemed a nice enough place to settle down. Early retirement for me, good opportunities for my family. Apparently good food, provided I steer clear of the omelette."

If de la Vega heard tell about newcomers being counseled toward violence, he gives no indication. But that could be because he's busy giving his buddy the lowdown on office politics. He makes a moue with his mouth, shrugs a big shoulder, dark eyes lingering on the Pakistani woman for a few beats when she looks over. "I'll be sending out an email in the morning about it," he tells Moretti, digging in his pocket for his phone, and nodding toward the counter as his buddy's coffee arrives. The Mexican cop's badge and gun are clearly visible, meaning he's likely technically on duty, at least for a short while yet. He briefly skims through his Friendzone feed, glances at his watch, flicks a glance toward the booth with Ravn and Itzhak, then back to his phone.

"I hear surgery's cheap in Brazil." Gina points out offhand, taking down all the orders and sending them all to the kitchen. Finally picking up her coffee again, she takes a revitalizing sip. "You'll have to forgive birdboy. He's got a crush on me. Has to bring me up whenever he can." Gina is so dry-- she says it so simply, maybe someone SHOULD question Ravn's current crushes! After all, it's not like Gina being cruelly blunt is anything new. "Anyway. New kid," Gina realizes Ifra is over a decade older than her, doesn't she? Doesn't she? "Gina. If you haven't figured it out. It's my place." THis monstrosity of bear kitsch belongs to Lumberjack Goth? Well okay then. "We're open 24/7. So's the waffle shop if you want okay food with more traditional service. I don't believe in making my people fake happiness and kiss ass. But our food's better." A little shrug, Gina's expression not changing much through any of this. She's not exactly emotive beyond a general disaffected disdain.

"Touch sensitive," Ravn grouses in Itzhak's general direction though from the lopsided smile on his face, it's a pretty minor complaint. "Warn me next time, or something."

The look he sends Gina upon being accused of having a crush on her, though. It's not annoyed, or frustrated, or embarrassed. If anything it's just plain confused. He blinks a few times, then shakes his head lightly. "My name means Raven, in Danish. That's where she gets Birdboy from. Gina, what are the odds of another cup of coffee while I wait? The usual 'get it your own damn self, Birdboy?'"

He seems to assume that it must be. At least he gets up and heads towards Lora. Maybe he thinks Instagram Girl will be friendlier.

"One a them days, huh? Sorry, pal." And Itzhak never apologizes! But he'll apologize for that. Apologize, and keep his distance, although he tends to give the impression he's getting in someone's face no matter how politely distant he is. He snorts at the idea Ravn's got a crush on Gina, but no-comments.

The reply he gets from Ifra, that she decided Gray Harbor was a nice small town to settle in for retirement, gets a look from Itzhak like she just leaped on a table and pronounced herself Queen of Spain. Except he might applaud that. This, he doesn't. "...yeah, well, welcome to the neighborhood, I'll bake ya a fuckin' casserole." He glances at Ruiz and Moretti--and then just Ruiz--and then turns back to his coffee with a worried hike to his eyebrows.

Ifra takes a moment to pour what might be the entire GDP of Guatemala in sugar into her coffee, then rather than claiming a disposable plastic stirrer simply swirls the cup in her hand, around and around. "Nice place," she insists to Gina, delivery so deadpan it's entirely unclear if she means it or not. I mean, somebody somewhere must like all the bear tat, and maybe it's her? "And as for faking happiness and kissing up, tell me, have you ever contracted to the military? I'm pretty sure the chefs there subscribe to the same theory. Only," she adds as an afterthought, "with a much more lax attitude towards what they technically classify as 'food'." Complete with air quotes with the one hand not currently waving her coffee like she's performing some sort of mystical incantation over the sticky table.

"One reason I like hiring vets for cooks." Gina continues, with the same even expression, "But only ones who learn how to actually cook after. Plus they bitch less at me." Once hierarchy is established, anyway. Rule 1: The diner is not a democracy. It's an apathetic dictatorship. "One thing I can't cure anybody of is the omelettes, though." A small shrug, before there's a ding! and hte first meal is ready - to Ravn, his pastrami sandwich - slice of fresh rye bread, a bit of slightly hot homemade mustard, and a big, juicy pile of pastrami, cooked to perfection, with a few slices of pickle to the side and a dish of extra mustard, just in case. Gina drops it on the counter and snaps her fingers, before making eye contact with Ravn and pointing at the dish. Yours, you claim it!

Looking towards Moretti and Ruiz, she does wonder, "So they're running the investigation? Or is this one of those internal clean-up shits? That's always fun to watch. I'll start delivering to the police office for a show, maybe." Like the police are her private entertainmeent.

How convenient, then, that Ravn is already at the counter. He manages to charm Lora into topping up his coffee -- the man does have a rather charming smile when he decides to wield it -- and picks up his sandwich, heading back. "See what I mean? Service here may be infamous but the food is bloody good. I'm pretty sure she just confessed to it being dead camel or something along those lines, but eh. Gotta die from something."

He settles into his booth and goes to work on his sandwich. It is a very nice sandwich. "Rosencrantz's not trying to be an arse. Gray Harbor's a little... unusual." The Dane lowers his voice, just enough that perhaps at least Moretti needs not hear every word he says. "Town attracts a lot of people with unusual talents, anyhow."

"How dare you, Abildgaard, I'm always trying to be 'an arse'." Itzhak mimicks Ravn's accent, because he really IS trying to be an arse.

Moretti's in way too good a mood to let Gina harsh it, so he just flashes her a grin over his coffee and waggles his eyebrows at her when she implies she's going to start stopping by the PD for a show. Like there might be something indecent about that. De la Vega just shakes his head, tonguetip touched to a canine, expression arch as he studies something on his phone. "Is who running the investigation?" he returns to Gina in a low murmur, shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans after a moment. It buzzes again, because apparently being the acting Chief means not getting a moment's fucking rest.

To Ifra, he points out glibly, "Some of the best food I've had was on base in Afghanistan, so don't make assumptions." A quick smile's curved her way. Or at least, one assumes that was intended to be such.

"I'm pretty sure my only unusual talent is that I'm about to break the world speed eating record when that burger arrives," Ifra admits, flipping over her phone when it buzzes again. She glances to it briefly, then up and over to Ruiz, looking him over speculatively. "Army?" she queries, before punching more texts to whoever it is on the other end and turning her phone back over again to lay down on the table.

Ravn glances at Rosencrantz. "Fair point. Forgeddabouddit."

No, Ravn. You cannot do a New York gangster accent. Just, don't.

"Like I said. I don't believe in employees kissing ass. Happy employees, better food. Which is what you should care about in a food place, not how much teeth the waitress flashes." Gina makes it all sound so REASONABLE as to why customer service should just be abolished. Ravn gets a look, then a shake of her head, "You have no ability to let this happen, do you?" She muses, her speculative gaze moving from Ravn to Ruiz, next. "The out of towners from Seattle." Because Gina is local, and Out of Towners are their own special breed of ridiculous. "I gotta say-- I'll be amused to see if they deal with your mouthier people. Or if they'll mouth off worse. It's worth the free show." And, like magic, there's also a DIng! As Ifra's burger comes up, and Gina actually delivers it right to Ifra's table. Because Ifra isn't Ravn.

Itzhak's phone goes bzz-bzz from his pocket just as his own order is coming up. He pulls it out to check it. "...lemme get that boxed up, yeah?" Then he's slithering out of the booth and sauntering to the counter, claps Ruiz on the shoulder in a very heterosexual manner. "Gotta take care of a thing."

Army? she asks, perfectly reasonable-like. And there's the slightest tic in Ruiz's jaw, like he's restraining himself from making a face. His eyes rove back to Ifra, tick over her briefly, make another little assessment. A slightly more in-depth one than his initial who the fuck are you, and why are you in this godforsaken town. "Marines," he corrects after a telling beat, gaze sliding over to Itzhak when he approaches and claps him on the shoulder. "Is that code for, gotta take a piss, or you need to take a guy out back and shoot him in the head, and want me to dump the body for you?" His tonguetip touches the inside of his cheek as if to suppress a smile.

There's another buzz from the phone on the table in front of her. Ifra looks at it, rolls her eyes, then snaffles an onion ring from the plate with one hand while holding up one finger on the other. "I'm sorry, there's been a change of plan. Can I get this to go, too?" she asks, shovelling the onion ring and then a couple of roasting hot fries into her mouth. She gathers her phone smoothly into her bag and pulls out a purse instead to begin counting out bills, along with an undeservedly reasonable tip.

Ravn glances at the woman across from him. "Oh, before you go. It's a rough town. You need anything later, don't be afraid to ask. Beach bar, the Two if by Sea. I work there, catch me if you need." Delivered staccato, lest she escapes before he's done. In this town, these things are important.

Even if it means she'll probably think he tried to pick her up. Such are the risks of life.

Gina stares at Ifra, a moment too long at how extra effort this new person is, before she rolls her eyes and wordlessly boxes up the meal for Ifra to run off with. The black bear take-out containers (recyclable paper)! even have little fake 'claw' marks on them. Totally in theme. The money is all just put into Gina's back pocket. Because it goes to her in the end, anyway.

Itzhak blushes. He just outright blushes, first around the ears, then across his cheekbones and the bridge of his big crooked nose. Which nose he wrinkles at Ruiz. "A car thing." 'Car' comes out like 'cahh'. He bumps Ruiz and then he's swanning on out. "See ya around Moretti!"

Ravn glances after Ifra as she leaves -- and Rosencrantz, for that matter, but he probably didn't worry so much about whether the mechanic actually intended to go bury bodies. "What do you think? Apart from the fact that she probably thought I was trying to pick her up, I mean. Get the feeling she's no pushover at least. Just hope somebody's had a chance to warn her about this place."

Gina shrugs, "Leave her at it. She's barely a blip, Birdboy. If you don't warn her, tthere's a high fucking chance she'll be left alone. If she gets warned, there's a higher fucking chance she'll get dragged into the bullshit because you want to 'help'," Airquotes, there, "And you put a target on her back. Ones like her, better to wait and see. If they ping the weird, if they ask, then you lay shit out. If they don't? Why drag them into it?" Gina's looks at Ravn, an unamused half smile touching her lips. "But you do what you think is best. Nevermind me."

"I am barely a blip. I hadn't been here a week before I got tossed into my first two experiences. Not sure I think it fair to make that gamble -- but I might just, you know, be there so that there's someone to ask when the manure happens." Ravn nods and drinks his coffee. "From what I'v e seen there's very little of an if there."

The cops at the front counter have since become cop, singular; Moretti's taken his leave, and de la Vega's shoved his badge into his jacket pocket in some vain attempt to look less like the acting Chief and more like a regular guy waiting on a lukewarm cup of coffee. He observes Itzhak's departure absently, then tugs his ballcap off and rakes his fingers through his hair and nods once when Lora asks if he'd like something. His usual. He's going to regret this, he knows it.

Gina gives a small snort, "You're a soft ping. Not a blip. And this shit happens to everyone in town, birdboy. It's just most don't remember it." A fact that doesn't seem to bother Gina. She's used to it, and picks up her slightly abandoned coffee, refills, and goes to lean on the counter. "But yeah, line your shit up after if you want to be that guy. Before is just pointless. The more you tell people about it, the deeper they're involved." An amused, dark smile at Ravn, "You do all that if you want."

Lora smiles at Ruiz, nodding and going to pour him his coffee, back to him. When he's handed his coffee, it's black and-- sweet. Very sweet. Is there some kind of syrup in there? It must have had someone pour in a half-inch of agave at the bottom, when he tastes it. Also why does it taste faintly of cloves? But Lora hands the deceptively dark liquid to Ruiz with a smile and tells him the price.

"No, I'll take your advice. It makes sense. Does make me wonder why half a dozen people rushed to tell me everything on arrival, but maybe I just have one of those faces everybody loves to hate." Ravn shrugs and swipes a few toothpicks from the basket at the centre of the booth, tossing them up and catching them on his left knuckle, and then letting them dance back and forth there like rather misshapen coins. "I do feel that it helped me, knowing. Probably have thought I was going insane when I found myself playing Ichabod Crane, if no one had warned me that this town does... things."

For all the police captain's got a reputation for having a nasty temper, he's honestly fairly difficult to provoke into actual violence. So when he takes a sip of that sickeningly sweet coffee, pauses, and narrows his eyes slightly at the girl who slid it over to him.. well, she might just get the rather uncomfortable sense that she's gone too far. Just for a moment there. Surely he can be pushed beyond his limit to cope, and maybe coffee bastardised with too much sweetener is his hill to die on.

But, no. He simply sets it down, and pushes it back. And meets Lora's gaze squarely. "I'm not paying for this," he murmurs low, with a brief glance toward Gina, and then back to the girl in front of him with no move made toward his wallet.

The look Gina gives Ravn could be one of... faintly condescending pity, if it wasn't so obvious she was smirking still. "One of those clueless faces? Maybe people just want to get you in trouble." Gina offers with a half-shrug, all innocence.

Lora, however, doesn't look surprised, though she does shrink a little under Ruiz's glare. She glances over at Gina, eyes wide - Gina is as likely to let an employee fight for themselves as she is to intervene - but Gina does glance over, notice the look... siiiiiiiips her own coffee, before leaning back against a shelf and calling out, "Don't worry about it, Lorna. After all, the cops have suuuch a good reputation in town. Of course they should get special privileges for doing their job." An amused look toward Ruiz, amusement that doesn't quite reach those dark eyes of Gina's, before she takes another sip. "Or else we might end up in one of those special reports."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow at that. "I did wonder what her problem was."

Ruiz isn't sticking around to argue the matter. He pushes away from the counter, slides Gina a wordless look that says plenty about what he thinks of his reputation and her amusement, and then he prowls for the door after a murmured farewell to Ravn. The coffee's left both untouched and un-paid for.

Gina says nothing, only sips her coffee, being...entirely Gina. Unimpressed, a little overconfident, more than a little bit that bitch right there-- and watches Ruiz leaves. Only when he's gone does Gina turn to look at Lora and gives her a wave, "Yeah, fine, talk to your supervisor." She says before Lora can get a word in edgewise. As for Gina, she just looks back at Ravn and raises both her brows. "Whose problem?"

"Special reports lady." He shrugs and bats his eyelashes at Lora for a coffee refill. It worked once, it might work again -- and he is a good looking fellow when he turns on that 1,000 watt smile. "The one you were arguing with the other day. I only caught the tail end and I honestly wasn't paying attention since it wasn't any of my business in the first place."

"Oh, that? Dealing with High schooler?" Gina shakes her head slowly, "That's what happens when you go off the fucking deep end. I'd bet money she hears whispers, gets mysterious feelings, has some kind of fucked up shit or needs to follow a mission." Gina doesn't look surprised at all. "It's how they get you, sometimes. The devil quotes scripture, they tell you how you can do good in the worst ways. She's diving deep and doesn't know it." Gina says this all in a low, knowing tone, flat and practical, and shakes her head towards the end, reaching to grab Ravn's cup herself and pour more coffee for herself AND Ravn. Hers is the only one spiked with caramel. "Not really my business either."

Ravn decides to lean against the counter rather than walk back to his booth. He'll probably just end up in the trajectory of something thrown by one of those grumpy toddlers if he keeps walking past them and really, this leather jacket is dry clean only. "You certainly didn't look like you were about to wet yourself, no. Does this kind of thing happen often? I had the impression that law enforcement is pretty straight here on the whole."

Beat. "Pretty by the book. You know what I meant."

Gina turns to look at Ravn, and her expression is... that particular one. That playful, cynical, teasing-serious look that makes it difficult to gauge how much of what she says is serious, how much is lies, how much is bravura. "Do you think after living in Gray Harbor for a few decades, you're going to be afraid of the police for very long?" Gina asks, lips quirking to one side. "You think a delusional bitch of her level, who only goes that deep in water like she's got is enough to make anybody here wet themselves?" Gina sets the coffee down in front of Ravn, "My conscience is clean, I can probably take her in a fight and I've outgrown being afraid of a slow-as-fuck wrecking ball not even on my trajectory. I might be rusty as fuck-- but I'm not that rusty."

As for the matter of the cops, Gina shrugs and enjoys another sip of her coffee, "The Veil makes morality weird here. The police get it worse. Don't really care if the police are corrupt or straight, jsut as long as they don't affect me."

"Morality is weird here," the Dane concurs and sips his now fourth cup of coffee -- how does this man avoid being one big pile of nervous jitters? "I'm interested in the police because here, the police and I are actually on the same side. Us against the them. And, I suppose, a great deal of cops who have no idea what's going on, but at least they seem to not usually go out of their way to bother anyone. Or maybe I'm just biased because when you make your way as a boardwalk hustler, the only good cop is the one you spot before he spots you."

"The police are on no one's side. Just like everybody else, they are on their own side." Gina says, glancing back towards the door, "They are a gang with better intentions and better publicity, and a longer training period. They're useful and they're dangerous. And the Captain is an asshole I'm okay throwing negative fucks at." Gina shrugs, "I'm petty sometimes." ...she's aware?" Either way, she waves a hand and moves towards the door to the back. "Don't side with the police. Use 'em or exploit them. It's what they're there for."

"It's me you're talking to, remember? I don't do gangs. In my very black and white world you're either with humanity or against it. De la Vega's no ball of sunshine but as long as he's not roughing me up in a jail cell on a charge of breathing while foreign, I couldn't care less about his credentials. I'm a law abiding citizen, more or less." Ravn shrugs. "Not having to bail when they walk in is an improvement."

"I hate humanity. Guess I know where I stand with you." Gina says, a casual wave-- and she's gone through the door, just like that. Ravn will never have a satisfying conversation with Gina, will he?

Perhaps he's coming to terms with that. At least the Dane casually finishes his coffee before paying -- and tipping -- Lora. He's out of there before she starts to think that that brilliant smile meant more than 'please get me coffee that tastes like coffee' though.