2021-01-16 - Fistful of Gauze

But there's fire tonight on your side of town,
Orange light in the sky without a sound.
-Information Society "Fire Tonight"

The night sky across the border is orange as can be as a fire lights up the horizon in hellfire that doesn't want to go out and a black plume that lingers on the horizon like a fel omen. Over the scanners almost 20 minutes ago now report a warehouse exploded lighting up a space the size of a city block. Meth labs are dangerous! So is pissing off Monaghan's tidy little empire which Reyes knows with utmost clarity.

Itzhak drove the injured underboss back to the gym and took his car for detailing. Half the troupe went into the veil and there's a distinct request from Joey to Rhys to go sore those files and loot he took now before something else happens. Allegedly there's everyone's favourite little old man waiting to patch Joey up because he is still bleeding like a sieve.

It's night and the gym should be locked. There's ambient light in the windows of the back room. In the boiler room Joey's the one sitting slouched over the back of his office chair trying to keep compression on the frount of his wound as he endures the 'Tailor' to stitch him back up. That lil dude is also his cutman for his corner. This is not the first time he's patched him up from whatever.

Cristobal makes his way back to the gym after a very interesting 'walk' on the wild side, shucking his jacket once he's down in the boiler room, holding it to the light to examine the hole in the side. "You gonna live, Kelly?" He asks, while bundling up the ruined outerwear and tossing it in the trash can. There will be plenty to burn later after the 'doc' is done, and he's just adding to the pile.

It's likely no surprise that de la Vega's caught wind of what went down at that warehouse, that totally wasn't a meth lab. Mostly because it's his job to know these things, ideally before they're things.

So the sight of that unmarked black Charger rolling up in front of the gym is about as surprising as warts on a frog. The right side mirror is looking a little dinged up, and there are scrapes and gouges torn out of the paint job. Not to mention that push bar mounted on the front looks to have recently tangled with something bigger and meaner.

The door's slammed shut as the cop himself climbs out. Dressed in his usual civilian getup, plus a GRAY HARBOR POLICE jacket over top. He glances both ways across the street, then hauls the door of the gym open and shoulders his way inside.

Joey takes a long, slow breath really thinking about the answer and trying to focus on teh brick and the question and not the old man flushing the wound and trying to stitch it. Deep breath there. "Got State Finals in two weeks...I'm not missing that shit." Seriously he jsut stabbed how many fucking people andd he's worried about High School wrestling right now. Well it's as good as anything to focus on. There's a sharp wince that offsets his jaw and he grouses, "You even sharpen that thing first? Good lord." There's a door slam and Joey squints and looks to Cris, "See who we got. Could be Nicole. Don't... shoot my fiancee."

A grin is slanted Joey's way for his answer, which is as good as any given the situation. The fact that he's speaking at all gives him all he needs to know about the man's state but he's still hovering over the doc's shoulder as he gets all stabby with the stitches. Cruz has long since stowed the rifle Joey pilfered off the sentry, but he still has his side arm and a few of his other toys, so the Walther slips out of its hip holster at the sound of the door. "I might me masochistic, but I don't have a death wish." Which may or may questionable when he steps out into the gym and levels the barrel at one Javier Ruiz de la Vega. "Vega." He calls back to Joey, but doesn't lower the weapon until he has instructions from the man.

The man on the other side of that muzzle, of course, is armed as well. Though his own gun sits in its shoulder holster at the moment, underneath his jacket. The cop makes no move whatsoever to reach for it, when he's met with a faceful of Walther. Just a long-suffering sigh, and both hands come up to show that he's not got some sort of holdout pistol or knife palmed in either one. And to make it clear that he's carrying. Just the Sig, it looks like. "Realmente vamos a hacer esto, cabron?" he grumbles.

Because this is his evening. The boxer croaks with a sigh, "Man's got too many fucking names. he really... need to pick like... one." This hurts. This is why crime sucks. Arms that could crush the damn chair he's hugging try not to destroy it as he just holds o here while life sucks a little more. Tiredly he murmurs, "Well I'd ask if he has a warrant but he'll just fucking write himself one s...fuck it. Lettum in." His focus is swimming. It was a lot of adrenaline and a sizable amount of blood. With a murmur to the tailor he asks, "We almost done here?" The Tailor who's real name really is Ian Taylor though no one calls him that, murmurs, "Well not if you keep moving around like that. Just about." Though the Captain is on the other side of the door the medic works patiently.

As as the go ahead is given from Joey over his shoulder, Cris releases the PPK from his palm and it spins to dangle from his index finger, muzzle up. "Yeah, sorry about that. Thought you were an intruder. Eyesight might be going, y'know?" Though that smirk that Ruiz is leveled with would indicate otherwise. He steps aside, sweeping an arm in faux-congenial welcome, "Puedes entrar, amigo."

And that's Rosencrantz headed swiftly from across the street, boots silent on the blacktop, showing up a minute later like a stage magician. One that's slightly covered in blood, soaked into his dark plain clothes. He's keyed the fuck up from adrenaline and pain, looking like a wild man, smelling like blood and cordite. But he's on his feet and moving pretty well, so he must be mostly fine...just freaking out a little bit, eyes wide, his breath coming fast between clenched teeth.

"Fuck you too, Cruz," snarls the cop as he shoulders past, dark eyes cutting to the other Mexican for a moment as he passes. "And it's de la Vega." Which Cris knows perfectly well, of course.

Then, after a sweep of the floor, he rolls up on the gym boss getting himself stitched up. And shakes his head slowly. Like a disapproving.. well. Father might be a stretch. "Kelly." At least he isn't reaching for his gun. "What the fuck did you do." The door jangles open again, but he doesn't turn to see who's come in. He's deep in enemy territory right now, and he knows it. They want to shoot him, he won't have much say in the matter.

Joey tiredly croaks, "Problem solving. My reading comprehension is shit so I skipped forward to practical application." The words are decidedly slow. He's not dying but he just had a fucking point blank hole put through him and ya know, that leaves one feeling excessively poorly. Does Joey want to shoot the captain? quite possibly. The warm reception is gone, but that said Joey made a promise and seems hell bent on keeping that much as that may frustrate him. "The fuck you want? I know you're only here cause you want somethin."

"Yeah, I know. Shame I'm doing my job. And de la Vega is too long to shout, so I'm sure you'll get over it." Cristobal stays in the open doorway from access to the boiler room and gym, because the gym is bound to turn into Grand Central as the Away Team is returning to home base, and it's easier to vet people from here as they filter in. Itzhak gets an acknowledging up nod, but he doesn't do much to help the transition of the high strung man much as he might want beyond a wave like a traffic controller on the runway. "Rosie." The greeting isn't for Itzhak but an announcement for Joey.

As one door opens, so does another. This time from the back room as shirtless Seth Monaghan makes his way into the boiler room. Still clad from the waist down in his black pattern BDU bottoms and boots but Gone is the black bloodstained turtleneck and in its place a heavy wrapping of gauze and bandages, already showing the faint hue of pink as they start to soak though. In his hand, a six pack of beer the condensation sweating off the side of the cans.

The younger Monaghan strolls towards the desk, stopping short when he sees de la Vega as his eyes flicker from the cop to Joey and back.

Itzhak looks at Cristobal like he doesn't recognize him, green-gray hazel eyes flat and hard as agate. Past him, he hears Ruiz talking to Joey, and for one very obvious moment flashing across his mobile face, clearly thinks about just slinking away and pretending he was never here. Then he scowls (better to scowl than to cry) and stalks in, stiff with pain.

He could argue with Cris, or he could let it go, and stay on task. And focus on what he came here for. "Your problem solving tends to make more fucking problems, Kelly," Javier points out, easing onto the edge of Joey's desk so he can face the guy while he gets stitched up. Which necessitates moving a few things out of the way, so he has room to sit.

What the fuck does he want? His eyes narrow a fraction, and he reaches under his jacket (the one that reads GRAY HARBOR POLICE, just in case anyone had any doubts that he was the property of the cops), and digs out his cell phone. Scrolls through a couple of things on it, glances up at the approaching Seth for a long, long beat. Then hits play on something.. and holds it up for Joey (and probably Monaghan, too) to see. It's some jumpy cell phone footage of the warehouse explosion, taken from a nearby rooftop.

Joey looks to Seth and draws a slow pained breath and that thread goes through through through and ties up neatly. Stubborn ass Irish in the room right here. He might die before calling uncle in front of a cop or anyone that might qualify as hungry enough to consume him off the food chain. That's how these social situations work. Life's little grudge contest.

He's stared at and he stares at the cop back. There's a lot of words he's like to say but he ain't no telepath, just ornery. "Well that sounds like a you problem and less of a me problem." Those glass green eyes squint at the phone though. His thumb itches his stubble taking note that most of the cavalry is reporting in. Good. That fireball of their work captured in amazing splendor? Joey nods, "Definitely a you problem. Very much not a me problem. See this is why Neighborhood watch is important. Crack is what. The war on drugs is real. Talk to Clayton. Could be a Cult of Nancy Regan cropping up we dunno about."

Cris gives Itzhak a little slight loft of his eyebrows in a silent question of, 'You okay bro?' but doesn't have time to voice the question before the man is slinking away. Seth gets a slap on the shoulder as he passes, and then one more glance towards the front door and Cristobal is rolling his shoulders and re-holstering his gun to follow after. If Ruiz is going to come into the Lion's Den, he'll get the full Pride experience. Cruz finds a speck of wall to brace up and makes a two handed basket gesture for Seth to toss him a cold(ish) one.

Looking down at the cell phone, then back up at the cop, Seth smirks slightly. "You need a new special effects guy, de la Vega. The quality is shit and this looks fake as hell. You really should spend more on production values. It's all about how you light things, I can give you some pointers if you want."

Seth rips a beer off the plastic and tosses it over Cris' way, the pulls another off to set down in front of Joey. A third he pulls off and after a second of hesitation he gestures towards de la Vega with it in offering.

Nope--Itzhak loses his nerve and veers off from actually coming into the boiler room. He needs a cigarette. He really, really needs a cigarette. Well he needs the hole in his chest stitched up is what he needs, but it's fine, the bullet's holding everything in, he needs a fucking cigarette okay?

"The problem with my problems, Kelly," de la Vega practically purrs, shifting so he can shove his cell phone away again, and pull something else out. A quarter, of all things. "is that they become your problems." He holds it up, scissored between two heavily inked fingers for the gym boss to see. "Alguien dispara esa cuarta parte de la bala en ambos lados, no en uno." Then he flips it onto the floor, sending it skittering toward Joey's feet.

Maybe someone'll do him a favour and translate that for him. Maybe they won't. He, regardless, is leaving; Seth is shouldered past roughly, in lieu of accepting a beer, if he doesn't move out of the way. Itzhak's pinned briefly with his gaze as he passes, but that's about all the acknowledgement the other man gets, while he's surrounded and technically still on duty. Badge and gun, Gray Harbour's finest, indeed.

Is Joey taking a swing at the cop from a chair while getting stitched up? No. The hand reaches out in a flash and snatches that quarter from the air. GOD how he wish he hadn't, but boxers have fast hands for a reason (that reason is not thinking about will this hurt if I do it. FYI. To those keeping track! Also ow~!) The coach, mini boss, pin cushion, whatever looks at the quarter in his hands and back up to the Captain.

There's a long pause. No Joey doesn't fucking speak Spanish. The man barely speaks English properly though Alexander is fighting the good fight to fix that. He will absolutely need a translation. For now? Hell. "Well... technically it's two less problems." with DuBois not there and a meth lab down that was high production? Well it's sort of a backhanded win.

Cristobal catches the beer in and pops it open in one swift move, sucking some of the foam from the top before he mutters a, "Gracias, hermanos." To Seth as he leans back just in time to watch the quarter go flying and Joey snatches it out of the air. "He said, 'here's a quarter, call my mom and say hi, she misses you'." Whether or not that's what Ruiz actually said? Yeah, probably not. "Do we even have pay phones in Gray Harbor anymore?"

Ruiz shoves past Seth roughly, jostling the side the enforcer was shot in. To Seths credit he barely even acknowledges what would have to hurt like hell as the COP shoved him aside. He just shrugs his good shoulder and pops the top off the can of beer one handed, glancing down at the trail of red that slowly starts to ooze its way down his chest. "Damnit. I'm leaking."

Itzhak, crouched by the outside wall, looks up and meets Ruiz's eyes as the cop goes past. He swallows, and watches him, cigarette in his fingers, leaning against the wall like the ex-con he is. Will he actually go back inside now that he won't be caught between Chief of Police (acting) and Yard Boss? Maybe. Or maybe not so much. There's a look in his eye, when he meets Ruiz's, that says he's about two steps off from a meltdown.

Witness why Joey handles him like a liability. Too many fucking emotions. He doesn't dare say anything to Javier. He just looks at him, eyebrows up.

There's a cop waiting for him in his cruiser. Big black guy by the name of Moretti. He's in the Charger's passenger seat, with the laptop on its swivel turned toward him, and half an eye on Rosencrantz as his boss pauses like that. Then leans in as if to tell the lanky guy something quietly, one hand on his shoulder. What he doesn't notice is the warm surge of power that washes between them like a circuit being tripped. Softening the edges of Itzhak's emotions. Smudging them together, blurring the lines.

Javier's radio goes off, and he prowls away wordlessly, back to his cruiser, and replies to dispatch as he's climbing in.

Joey looks at the quarter in his hand. The last stitch goes in where the wound is packed and gauze applied. There's a pause and the quarter rolls between his fingers and stops. "No, he didn't. Cris, you fucking bring the moms into this I swear I will risk bleeding to death putting your head through that brick wall. It's a no-go area...good call on teh beer." There may be no fuzzy warm feelings there but there is one thing he knows, not believes but knows, and that neither one of them will ever talk shit about the other's dead mama. That he has not tried constitutes this as a warning and knowing Cris is also one to just run his mouth like a car waiting to race the light.

He doesn't ask. he doesn't stop the cop from leaving. he does turn to Seth tiredly and murmur, "Yell at your blood to get back in your body where it belongs. Also? You're wounded and alcohol is really only gonna thin that shit out like aspirin so you're like a damn water balloon." Which is not stopping Joey either though that shit won't get finished. "Great fucking work tonight. Hilariously... we got some of our shit back."

Cris chugs his beer in short order, and now that Ruiz has vacated the building seems to relax a touch. He drifts by the desk, nonchalantly grabbing up bloody gauze and towels and tossing into the trash. His smirk is given to Joey with bro-fondness at the warning. "He said if someone shoots a quarter, it puts a hole in both sides or some prophetic shit. I'm gonna take these off site and burn them. Maybe take a swing on home and Greco-roman wrestle a tall, hot Brit on the mattress to assure him I'm not dead. You good here? I can be back in an hour."

Looks down at the beer in his hand and sighs, looking from it to Joey and nodding once, "Yeah, you're right," the enforcer grumbles as he lowers the beer from his lips, offering it over to Cris.

"Wait, do what with my blood? I don't think it wants to listen to me. Not that I blame it, I wouldn't listen to me either."

Itzhak closes his eyes as Ruiz bends down to him, and then pulls him away from the bleeding edge. He opens his eyes again, looking rather steadier, and murmurs something to him in reply. When Ruiz leaves him he's able to peel himself off the wall, crush out his cigarette, and finally come into the boiler room. A lot less jittering, quivering energy on the verge of expressing itself in whatever manner possible at the time, his stride has a little of its usual swagger.

He looks at Seth and Cris and Joey, rueful, mouth quirking. Then, "Mind doin' me next?" he says to the tailor, because you gotta respect the guy.

Joey pockets the quarter setting his jaw on that. There's an insolent 7 year old that wants to fling it across the dark of the parking lot (darking lot?) but he doesn't. He gets up and moves to the bunk he keeps there so the chair is freed up. There's a gesture to come sit to Itzhak next in line. Looking up to Seth Joey asks, "The safe behind you. I opened it. Grab the envelope on top for me, please and pay the man out?" That's a testament right there to the fact that he's not exactly 'great'. He's not getting up and letting someone else touch his box of goodies (the safe folks, the safe). All that said he does know where every piece of paper in that thing is as if he's personally attuned to it. It's there, the envelope under the guns. It's fine.

Cris points at Seth with mock-admonishment for his statement. "Hey man. I'd cover your six into a hostile meth lab any day." Itzhak's reappearance earns the man a mildly relieved look that there is at least some color back into the Schnozz's face, clapping him on the shoulder as Cruz exits with his trash bag full of incriminating evidence. "One hour!" He promises over his shoulder to Joey as the man takes his bunk, no doubt meaning to return before the clock strikes those sixty minutes to stand guard the rest of the night as one of the few unwounded.

Seth does as he is told, reaching behind him to grab the envelope and hand it over to the Tailor, closing the safe door behind him.

"Ok, I'm gonna go back and clean this up then get out of here. I should go check on Vic and see is she has any holes she needs help plugging." Seth pauses after that comment and opens his mouth to say something else, then just closes it again with a shake of his head. "Yeah. Later Guys."