2020-12-29 - Crime Raccoons on the Case

The cherry red classic Mustang that's a fixture of the Lockhart family has also been a fixture of Elm Street for the last year or so. Ever since Tor inherited it from his uncle, it's been in his possession. And since a lot of his work involves dropping off deliveries, it's up and down Elm a lot. Right now he's driving down the street very slowly, stopping at each garbage can on the side of the road to peer curiously at it before moving to check the next.

A car like that tends to attract notice, especially when Alexander knows who drives it. Normally, it just gets a bit of a stinkeye from the investigator, but right now, it's not moving on for its usual deliveries, but rather slowing and stopping at each trashcan. Alexander has been walking in the neighborhood, and seeing something like that? Well, if he was a cat, it'd be a little trail of catnip. So, here he comes, dressed in his homeless chic, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized army jacket, slouching his way on an intercept course to the next garbage can that Tor is going to pass.

Tor is already slowing down at the next garbage can before he realizes that Alexander is walking up to the one that is not at his driveway. He looks a bit confused, but he rolls down the manual crank and leans an arm out. "Sup, man?" He doesn't look guilty about whatever he was doing.

"You're stalking garbage cans," Alexander says, bluntly. Although behind the suspicion that almost always shadows his face when he talks to Tor, there's a hint of amusement. "Granted, they aren't running away, but still. Stalking of garbage. It's interesting. Why?" The fact that it's none of his business doesn't seem to have occurred to him.

Tor rolls his eyes and scruffs back through his shaggy hair. He looks at Alexander like he's not sure he wants to answer the man. He sucks air between his teeth, and then, "Had some shit go missing from around the back of my trailer. Someone stole a locked tackle box, probably thinking there were valuable tools or somethin' in it. But there's just a bunch of old junky lures from my dad. Thought they mighta dumped it in one of these cans when they realized it's not a drug stash or holding a gun or whatever they thought was in there."

"Oh." Alexander just stands there, either processing for a moment, or struggling with competing interior impulses. He rubs his hand through his hair. "Did they break anything during the theft? A lock, or whatever?" A pause as he looks up, mentally gauging the distance and trajectory from the trailer park to where Tor is now. "I could look. See if there's any evidence that might help you recover it. There are a lot of trashcans."

"Nah, it was just stashed under the back porch." Tor's trailer, which used to belong to his mother and is his childhood 'home' is old enough to have a deck built onto the front and a small porch around back. "I know it's only gone missing in the last day 'cause I just moved the box from my trunk to under the porch the other day." He looks the other man over. "You bored or something? It's just a junky tackle box."

Alexander grunts at the information. "Have you asked if anyone saw anything? If it's only gone missing in the last day or so, it's probably one of your neighbors who saw you put it out there. They might have it at their place." He meets the look with a shrug. "It's yours. And now it's gone. And it shouldn't be." As if that's all that really matters. He pauses. "And yes, I'm bored. A small mystery is still fuel for the intellectual fires."

"Dude, I'm not gonna go banging on doors in fuckin' Huckleberry asking if the people who've lived next to me since I was a kid whether or not they ripped off a piece of shit tacklebox. For one, I gotta live with those people. For two..." Tor head-wobbles, "...shotgun ownership is fairly high in that corner of town."

Alexander looks...disappointed. He droops a little in place. "Fine." It sounds resigned - after all, Tor's not wrong about either point. Instead, Alexander turns his attention to the street. "Well. If you want, I can help you search. They might have just dumped it in a ditch, and that's a little harder to see from a car." Another of those pauses, like he realizes he skipped over a part of the social script. "If you want."

Tor chuckles. "Dude, do you know what this town'd say if they spotted you and me going through trash cans?" He thinks on that for a moment, then shrugs. "Probably that you're nuts and I'm up to no good. So, the usual?" And his answer to the question is to pull his car over so it's properly parked, then he steps out. "All right. Let's be raccoons."

"You say that like it's the first time I've gone through trash cans in the course of finding something," Alexander responds, his voice dry. He steps back as the car is brought in, and waits, his eyes scanning the area with casual paranoia. "Don't suppose you heard or saw anything related to the crime?" Once Tor's out, he offers a ghost of a smile. "You want the right side of the street or the left?"

"Oh I know it's not the first time, man," says Tor with a throaty chuckle. He shoves a wool hat down on over his messy hair once he's outside the car. "And I think calling it a crime is a little dramatic." But there's something to suggest that he's trying to play it cool, but is actually a bit upset by the loss of the box. Tor's dad skipped town a number of years ago not too long after his parents separated. He's been back a few times, but never for long. "Uh, well, doesn't make sense to check the side of the street heading back towards the park? I mean, if I was dumping shit on my way out, I'd do it on this side," he motions to the side they're on.

"Depends on how enthusiastic they were feeling," Alexander says, and mimes flinging something over his head, across the street. "But you're right. That's only probable if it was something personal, or they were particularly disappointed." He starts walking, apparently just expecting that Tor will either walk with him, or not. "We'll find it, Lockhart. It's heavy and sturdy. No one would have wanted to haul it around for very long." It's apparently an attempt to reassure the man, but his voice is flat; he's just not a very reassuring presence. He is, however, /thorough/. And good at searching for things, and the seriousness with which he tackles the problem might make someone think that someone just said a child was kidnapped, not an old tackle box.

Tor searches in silence for a few minutes. He's also being careful not to be super suspicious about rummaging through garbage. He skips the one with just bags out and sticks to the cans. After a minute or two, he turns to Alexander and says, "Look, I know you think I'm trouble and up to shit," which is sort of a fair assessment. "...and you're all about solving crimes and shit. So why are you helping me?"

"You are trouble, and you frequently are up to shit, Lockhart," Alexander says, without looking up. He pauses as he's pulling aside some roadside scrubs to peer down into them, but he doesn't turn back to Tor until he's satisfied himself that this bush, at least, is innocent of harboring stolen property. "I'm not sure I understand the confusion. You're the victim of a crime. You're looking for something that was stolen from you. Right? So why wouldn't I help?" He turns back to the search. "Besides, if it turns out to be filled with meth or something, we can deal with that when we get there."

Tor rolls his eyes. "I don't do anything other than weed, man. Too much trouble. And too much of a commitment. Once you're in that shit, you are in. My mom taught me better htan that. And I don't deal, except friends and family plan." No, he just buys and sells stolen property, like tackleboxes. He lifts the lid off a can. "Cause you're McPuff the Crime Hound or whatever and that's kinda the opposite of my whole deal."

"That helps soothe at least one concern I had," Alexander says, blandly. He continues to search through the brush, reaching down for a promisingly looking handle, only to pick up the shattered remnants of a bathroom mirror. He tosses it aside. "I'm Alexander Clayton. Not McPuff the Crime Hound. And as far as I can tell, you're not a bad person, and you're not committing a crime in this moment - except maybe trespassing, which is too boring to care about. So I don't have any reason to fail to help you." He frowns. "Just because you're a criminal doesn't mean that people get to commit crime on you with impunity. And it seems like the box is important to you."

"Yeah yeah, I heard you're not real good with nicknames. Doesn't it bother you not knowing whether or not Tor is short for something?" he says with a bit of a shit-eating grin as he checks another can. He reels backwards at the smell and starts to cough. "Ugh...fuck. Smells like something died in there."

"No, I'm not. And yes, it does. Is it short for something?" When Tor reels backwards, Alexander perks up and approaches the can, covering his nose as he peers in. "Really? You never know when you can find interesting evidence in trash cans." His face scrunches at the smell, but he does take a moment to survey the interior of the can before retreating.

Tor doubles back and retches a bit. He must've gotten a lungful of whatever it is. "Smells like rotten meat, like someone cleaned out their freezer and just chucked it all in there." He backpedals quite a distance, then looks at the two piles of garbage bags and one more can. "I don't think it's here. It was a longshot anyway."

Alexander smiles, slightly. He puts the cover back on the can. "That happens, sometimes." He follows Tor's look. "No reason not to finish up checking everything, just to make sure. Never leave a task undone," he adds, lightly chiding as he moves to the next section of road. "And you're dodging the question. Is 'Tor' short for a real name?"

Tor on the other hand, seems to have given up. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it with the habitual motions of a long-time smoker. Which is concerning given how young he is. "Why do you give a shit, anyway? Short forms of names are still names. Never could figure that out. Unless you got that thing like one of my cousins have where it drives you crazy to see things incomplete. He once stayed up all night finishing a puzzle 'cause he couldn't leave it unfinished."

Alexander does not give up; he just moves to checking the trash cans, as well. A sidelong look is given to Tor, but no actual criticism. "I could tell you, but you'd just find it crazy and laugh at me, and then I might punch you. I probably won't; I'm getting better about not punching people. But it's still on the table. Although I don't like to see things incomplete, either. A question without an answer is irritating. Don't you have anything that irritates you, but other people don't seem to even notice?" And if nothing else, it's a very thorough search.

"I admit I'm kinda a dick, but not so much of a dick that I'd laugh in the face of the guy who stopped to help me." Tor watches Alexander search the last few cans and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Unless I was looking for a fight. Which I'm not." Not right now. He's been kicked out of a few places for starting fights, though not recently. "Yeah, people nosing around my yard and stealing my shit," he mutters. Hypocritical, that. Considering part of his daily routine is to steal stuff that isn't nailed down. But he doesn't tend to shit where he eats.

Alexander considers that, and nods. "Fair enough. Then the answer is - names are identity and power and protection. Cutting off pieces of a name is amputating and disfiguring that identity. I find it ugly and dangerous. I don't like it. I can't stop people from doing it, but it's like watching someone stab themselves with a knife." He shrugs. "I'm aware it's not rational. It's just the truth." He works through the last of the grasses and the last can, and sighs. "I don't see any toolboxes, Lockhart. I'm sorry. I was hoping that we could find it for you."

"But someone has no choice about what they're named. So some people pick different names or different versions of their names so it feels more like them. I think it's dangerous to force people to stick to an identity that doesn't fit." See? Tor didn't laugh. "Would you still feel like someone chopped up their name if they legally changed it to the short version? Or do you think someone's name is stuck with them for life? What about married people?" He actually isn't starting shit. He seems actually curious about Alexander's logic.

He waves a hand at the comment about the box. "It's okay. It's a piece of shit, anyway." That was the closest a poor kid had to a family heirloom, but he's not gonna say that.

"It's not a matter of personal choice," Alexander says, warming to the subject, his eyes starting to flash. "No more than what DNA you have - your genes aren't something that you choose, but they still shape who you are. They are not the whole of what you are, but they are integral to who you are. And yes, you can change your name, and change your identity, but people do it casually, and rob themselves of the protections of their names. Their identity shifts, without intentional choice behind it, without realizing the risks, and then they're someone else without even realizing that could happen, and they don't even know what they've lost. It's ugly, and I hate it." His voice doesn't rise in volume, but as he gets into the rant, his words get faster, almost tumbling over themselves.

"I dunno. It's pretty normal to have your identity shift. It's just life." Tor doesn't sound like he's dismissing Alexander, just disagreeing. "Sometimes I don't think it'd be so bad to be someone else. Whether I knew it or not." He stubs out his cigarette and tosses the butt into one of the nearby cans, then shuffles back towards his car. He pauses in front of the other man, looks at him a moment, then says, "Tor's not short for anything. It's like, a Viking name or something." Which is apparently his way of saying thanks. He tugs open the door to his car.

"You have to hold on to who you are. You shift, yes. But it should be a choice. Or an awareness. People throw away their names, reduce and diminish them." Alexander looks fit to go on for a couple of hours on the subject, but then his mouth snaps shut. He studies Tor, the fire in his eyes dying down until it leaves only that reptilian intensity. "You're not terrible." Then a faint smile. "And it's a nice name." He looks around one more time, frustration crossing his features as the toolbox stubbornly fails to materialize. "I'm sorry," he says, as the other man makes his way back to his car.

"Your whole hypothesis presupposes that someone wants to stay who they are," says Tor. And for a moment, he doesn't seem like a scrappy little troublemaker. That was not a sentence with a grade 7 vocabulary like some Huckleberry residents. Before he closes the door, he grins with some of his mask back in place. "My name's Thor but with the 'h' chopped off. So someone chopped up another name to make mine." He pulls the door shut, but the window's still down from earlier. "See you around. I'm gonna go check with a few people." IE: fences who aren't him.

Alexander just heaves a sigh, setting his jaw in a stubborn line as he looks at Tor. "Don't get into trouble," he mutters, before ducking his head and starting to slouch his way along the road, back towards his own house.