2021-05-07 - An Unexpected Drink in An Unexpected Place

The night is cold, but it's not dark. The Grand Olympic Casino is lit up like ... well ... a casino, plus two large searching spotlights traveling the sky out front. A large red carpet has been rolled down the steps of its entrance and all manner of well dressed Who's Who are ascending the steps.

Well to one side of the staircase - out of everyone's way - is a tiny blonde thing who might look stunning in a black dress suitable for such an affair (plus a little shawl to keep warm under) if it wasn't for her icy blue stare and a face that screams for a quick merciful death before she goes in there with all the rest of them.

Her arms would be crossed under her chest except one elbow rests on the back of the other hand to hold up a cigarette just barely far away from her face so its rising smoke doesn't obstruct her view of the Important Folk.

Very obviously not Important Folk, one Ravn Abildgaard who clearly did not check the place's social calendar before turning up with a cardboard folder under one arm. Dressed in his usual black jeans, black turtleneck, and black blazer ensemble, the man very obviously is not headed for the red carpet or the spotlight -- he does in fact slink around it very much in the fashion of someone headed for a backdoor somewhere.

It's not that the man couldn't pull off the this is a fashionable hobo hipster look if he wanted to; he's got the six foot three and the cheekbones to look good in anything. It's more that he very obviously does not want to even make the attempt. If anything, Ravn's expression says something along the lines of bloody hell, I have taken such a wrong turn at Alberquerque that I need to pick up a Swahili primer. This fish is not out of water, it is out of ocean.

It's almost a little suspicious. Of all the times somebody could do a delivery of some kind -- and what does a charity volunteer have to deliver to a casino, anyway?

Her entire life is dedicated to scrutinizing things that aren't how they should be or are not where they belong. It's likely no manner of slinking would've prevented her from spotting him. Not that he was trying to in any case. Not that he noticed she was there. Of the two of them, she's the one being low key and hoping she doesn't get noticed.

But what the hell. It's only... Cassidy turns the underside of her wrist upward so she can read her watch... It's still early. She looks back up and re-finds Ravn. She sucks another drag out of her cigarette and then sends a stream of smoke into the night air above her head.

Then she calls out, "Hey, Rav..." Her voice move likely to kind of float its way above the din, barely, to his ears. It's not one to cut through noise. There's just not a lot of mid range.

And there is the Assistant DA in a small, black cocktail dress, calling Ravn's name. He looks up and recognition is evident on his face -- along with shit, somebody did see me. How to best avoid attention? Do not start running, do not walk away in a fashion that might then cause somebody to yell your name and make everybody notice.

Better to just pretend you belong.

Ravn offers a small smile back, while continuing to drift towards that elusive back door. A small wave of a gloved hand, and then changing course slightly to come within quiet conversation distance of the blonde woman. "I think I came by at a bad time," he murmurs, and glances at the crowd of elegant evening dresses and fancy tuxedos -- and even a couple of Steve Jobs impersonators much like himself because when a tech millionaire does it, it's clearly legit. "Some kind of fundraiser?"

"A convention for the Bar Association." Cassidy rolls her eyes as a way to express that she'd rather not be there but that she has to. "Usually they hold these at a Marriott. I don't know." She shakes her heads and sighs.

Her hair is done up pretty well for someone who 'doesn't want to be there'. If those waves were much tighter they'd be curls pulled half up just out of her face with just a couple loose tendrils bouncing around on either side of her face. Their movement tends to accentuate any minor shake or vibration of her head. It really makes what might have otherwise been silent, imperceptible irritation 'pop' at times. Her make-up is on point as well.

"What are you doing here?" She looks directly at the cardboard folder, then up - well, uuuuuuup - to his face. Blue eyes that practically sledgehammer one with their brightness. And it seems she really only knows one way to ask questions and it's not in the way that would make her a great therapist.

"Need to bring some paperwork over to the manager of the place -- he's an accountant on the side, and one of his customers wants to make an anonymous donation to the HOPE centre," Ravn murmurs absentmindedly as his gaze trails a tall woman in an evening gown that manages to say I love sparkly and I have way too much money for my own good at the same time. "I didn't realise that there was an event going on, would have picked some other time."

He pauses and then looks back to -- well, down to -- Cassidy. "Are you here -- as a guest, or are you working, then?"

Cassidy looks at the envelope again, then to the man holding it. He's distracted by sparkly things and so unlikely to have caught the immediate flash of disappointed disapproval in her face when he explains what he's holding.

She immediately turns her head away to take another drag, and then investigates where /he/ was looking. "That's the DA's wife and she'd definitely fuck you if you tried. Her family's wealthy and he's as unvirile a man as God ever made, so..."

"I'm here because my boss (the DA) told me I had to come tonight. It's good for the department. " She looks back to him, "...you and he probably have the same accountant." There's actually a tinge of hopefulness giving him the benefit of the doubt in that statement.

Ravn blinks; he had clearly not considered that angle. "Uh. Right. I think I'll pass? Sucks to be her, but I can't quite see myself as the third wheel in somebody's marriage. I was actually just thinking that maybe wearing a Dolce y Gabbana for a party in bloody Gray Harbor is a bit... Eh, to each their own, her money to spend."

Apparently he's someone who can in fact recognise high end fashion when he sees it, in spite of his own dress code.

Then he shakes his head, not quite catching the subtler undertones. "My own accountant resides in Denmark -- but the HOPE centre has its legal affairs and finances managed by a firm in Seattle. We figured it might be best to use an out of town company, all things considered -- no local interests getting involved. I'm told that a lot of nonprofits are basically fronts for money laundering? We wanted to be entirely certain that everything is water tight in that regard."

As in, our accountant is out of your reach, Veil monsters. But how to explain that to someone who does not know about the Veil?

"I graduated top two percent from Harvard. If Gray Harbor is good enough for me, it's good enough for Dolce & Gabbana." Except it's not good enough for her and five minutes with the woman is enough to see that clearly written all over her face.

The cigarette is discarded in the ash tray. Which ash tray? The one she has been standing next to this whole time. Convenient. Another is selected from a pack of Kools in her clutch. She looks at Ravn for a moment before she lights it. Right. Asthma. She doesn't ask if he wants one and snaps her clutch back closed after it's lit.

She listens about the accountants and emits a single laugh. "Oh is that what they're for? Well your private donor is probably Felix Monaghan and he wouldn't be doing it 'for the kiddos'." She gives him a sympathetic look, "But hey. You need the money." And you can't say no. - the part that she doesn't say out loud.

"See, that's the beauty of us having private sponsors already covering utilities and rent," Ravn says bluntly. "We can in fact afford to say no thank you. Doesn't mean someone can't lie to us, obviously -- but we're not a convenient place to drop any drug money you don't want the IRS to find out about, then come pick them back up in form of questionable work receipts later on. I do know how money laundering works, Miss Bennett -- and it's not what we do. Felix Monaghan has no interest in us and we'd like to keep it that way. Me being friends personally with his cousin is probably going to get us enough attention as it is, on that account."

She waits out the explaining and rolls one shoulder. "Well that's good. You wouldn't want the strings attached."

"And please, call me Cassidy." And she gives him that sympathetic look again, but this time it says 'I know I'm a bitch and I'm sorry'. It's just that she probably can't help it.

"Do you plan on sticking around and having some fun, or are you just rushing in and out? Probably the best time to gamble is while these yahoos are in their emptying their pockets. Plus I hear it's free drinks on the floor."

Ravn hesitates a moment. "I'm not really -- this is a scene I haven't really felt at home with for a long time. But I could go for a drink to keep you company, if you're stuck here for appearances' sake. Drawing the line at putting on a tie, though, that's not happening."

And maybe he can just slip that folder to somebody looking like staff while he's at it, instead of having to find out which way through the back door to Rhys' office. It'd help if he could remember the man's last name. Very professional, Ravn, really.

With a somewhat wry smile he adds, "I am not really very fond of crowds and social brouhahas. Most of these people? I don't know them, but just from looking at them I can tell that half of them have their heads stuck up their own arses, a few up the arse of their buddies' wives, and the rest are here to get seen and have pictures taken for the Gazette. Definitely not my scene -- I'm the guy who'd rather break an arm sideways than get on a karaoke stage, remember? But, let's go find out if they have a decent whiskey, then."

"You don't have to wear a tie and as much as I dislike this crowd, don't be fooled. They aren't what you think. It's only the elected ones who have their heads up anyone's ass. The rest of them got where they are by bashing the other guy's face into a wall and leaving him for dead." Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Oh the Gaazeettteee...I forgot!" She stuffs her cigarette out and grabs his hand. She moves fast and forward, uncaring to any resistance that might prevent itself.

A loud whistle, "Hey Rob!" she waves a photographer some distance away. "Get a shot of us! The Forester Slayer and the President of the HOPE Community Center in front of the Casino!"

Then she's on Ravn's arm with the most bright and charming smile anyone could possibly ask for waiting for Rob to snap the photo.

SO MANY ISSUES.

Ravn manages to not yelp out loudly when Cassidy suddenly grabs his gloved hand and hauls him off. His grip is steel though, almost as if he's forgetting that he's holding the hand of someone human -- maybe he thinks it's a contest of strength. Either way, the man's fingers are surprisingly strong.

"I'm not, there's not a president," the man protests, clearly off balance, as he's hauled in front of the photographer. When the flash goes off like canned lightning, the expression on Ravn's face borders panic; here's a man who hates attention and fears crowd, being propped up like a jet set darling on the casino staircase?

Maybe he should look into finding a local therapist later.

"I almost hope somebody decides we're dating," he mutters as he manages to find at least some composure -- probably at the bottom of a back pocket. "Can I have my hand back? Pretty please?"

Cassidy is off him as soon as the flash indicates a captured photograph. She removes her hand from his and shakes it out with a little wince of pain showing on her face.

Addressing the photographer, "Thanks Rob! Tell them to put it at the top of the column tomorrow. And say hi to Jessica for me, okay?" She winks at Rob and gives him a wave with her fingers.

Then that playfulness is gone and she looks at Ravn like a strange thing, "What's the deal? You nearly crushed my meta-car pool-airies...or whatever they are." She nurses that hand with the other and sighs. "Whatever. You're buying the drinks. Come on."

Cassidy turns and starts walking ahead of Ravn. She lifts her dress just enough to allow her to ascend the stairs easily. "Don't forget your folder."

"... Sorry. I have neuropathy. Being touched when I don't expect it -- it's like sticking my fingers into an electrical socket. No way you could know that, of course." Ravn makes an apologetic grimace and flexes his fingers on the offending hand several times as if he needs to convince them to stop curling into a fist for some strange reason. At least it's some kind of explanation for the gloves that the man is never seen without. "I, uh, don't usually shake hands for that reason, at least not unless I see it coming."

He lets himself be lead along, though, something he'd have sworn wasn't going to happen -- him, at the Casino, during some kind of event. Baba Yaga's life advice has a lot to answer for, and the Dane is honestly feeling the temptation to go find that old fortune teller slash portent of mythical change and punch her in her mythical teeth.

Better to keep a straight face, though. The man who shouts and flails is the man who gets the attention -- the attention which Ravn doesn't want. "What's your poison?" he murmurs and attempts to weave through the crowd of finely dressed people without accidentally jostling or being jostled. Although at least he seems able to do so -- walking with the confidence of someone who is not intimidated by the obvious displays of wealth and high class, and not very surprised at what he's seeing, either. Hipster hobo -- possibly. Beach bum, definitely not.

"Uh huh..." is all Cassidy allows for the neuropathy explanation.

She weaves him right through the gaming floor on the way to the bar. Why? Because the gaming floor is of course right up front and the bar is on the other side. They want you to sit down and play. Why didn't they just walk around the perimeter? Because Cassidy doesn't do slow.

"I like a lemon drop..." she lets the name of her drink roll off the tongue but the plosive sound of the 'p' is accentuated with a little pop of matte pink lips. That's when they arrive to the bar and she's turned to lean back against it so she can look at him and smile.

Why is she smiling? Because the drinks aren't free at the bar. They're only free on the gaming floor. But her smiling like that, with blue eyes sparkling under the dim lighting, and features softened from 'ice queen' to 'I just might enjoy talking to you' is worth the 12 bucks, or whatever it is, right?

Ravn settles on a barstool and waits for the bartender to approach -- which she does, in not too long because while the copper blond bloke there may not be a familiar face from the gossip rags, the ADA is. "The lady wants a lemon drop," he requests. "Myself, I'll take Glenfiddich or Chivas Regal, but old enough to be legal in Kentucky."

If the idea bothers him, he does not let it show. Maybe charity is good business after all.

Having ordered, the Dane half-turns on his stool to study Cassidy's face, smiling a little as if amused by what he finds. "Did I tell you what I used to do, before I came to Gray Harbor? I was a grifter. A scam artist. Cold reading is what I do, and I am pretty good at it. You're trying to work out what my game is, and whether I'm somebody you should take a professional interest in. It's easier to just ask, you realise?"

"Everyone I've ever met has been really good at reading people, Rav." Cassidy says with a laugh. She then bobs her head side to side, accentuating each word of the phrase, "So they say."

She steps up to slide into a stool as well. One hand turns, palm facing the sky, "I'm not a detective Rav. What I'm interested in is you're buying me a drink."

She turns that same hand palm facing down now and well manicured finger tapping the top of the bar, "But it is the second time tonight you've gotten a little defensive, so I'll let you in on a secret." She leans forward a touch and whispers, "I'm a prosecutor, not a witness. And I can't be both."

"Doesn't mean you can't decide that we have something to hide," Ravn points out, with a small smile. "I'm just offering to save you the trouble. But you're right, I don't really deal very well with authority. Largely because many otherwise decent people turn into raging assholes the moment they perceive themselves as having some kind of power over somebody else."

And then the smile widens a little, as if the conversation is on some level amusing. "But I suppose the real question I should be asking is, why does the assistant district attorney want to have a drink with some jackass non-profit volunteer, unless she thinks there might be something going on there that interests in her in a professional capacity? I don't figure I'm horrible looking, but I doubt you fell arse over heels for my pretty face just like that."

Cassidy laughs when the drinks arrive. She takes hers and tries to take a sip, but can't quite do it. She settles it down and looks over at him.

"Wow...." she says, "You really suck at this, don't you?"

She sits up and shakes her hair back a little. She can now take a sip and she does so. She rolls in her lips to clean them of the sugar that transferred from the rim of her cocktail glass. "I don't need to be in love with someone to make them keep me company."

"Here..." She turns to face him directly. "Hi. I'm Cassidy. We met at the Black Bear. I think your butcher shop space is cool but it does smell weird and I'm excited to see how the mural turns out." She motions to him and bows her head a little, "And now you say, 'Thank you, I appreciate that...' yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda." She waves her hand around to fill in the yadda-yaddas and then it gracefully lands back on the stem of her glass.

"Yes, I do," Ravn says bluntly. "I don't play these games, because I don't understand them, and I don't much care for them. Now, if your answer is, 'I felt like a drink and this idiot isn't the worst conversation I could have in this place', then I'm fine with that."

His drink turns out to be Chivas. He samples it and nods his approval to the bartender in the fashion of someone who would in fact be able to tell if this whiskey was less than twelve years old.

"We did get rid of the smell at least." The Dane winces slightly. "Only took four people in hospital to do so. They tell me it was a gas leak. Which then exploded. Next to us." He glances at himself -- his left arm, to be precise. "Fractured my arm, bent a couple of ribs. Some of the others were worse off -- Vydal got cut up badly, and Holt suffered massive burn wounds to her chest area."

Gas leak, undead abominations. Same deal where the Gazette is concerned at least.

Cassidy rolls her eyes and just brushes the top part of the conversation off with a, "You watch too many cop shows." It's has the sound of a pat response. Certainly it's not the first time she's had to try and make someone let go of the fact she's in law enforcement.

She sucks in a breath when he describes the explosion and traces his own glance to his arm. "At least you're okay...." As to Vydal and Holt? "I don't know those people, but I hope they are okay as well. Does that set back your opening?"

"Holt is the artist -- the woman with the mural." Ravn nods and specifies because while there were in fact two artists discussing murals, the other was the decidedly male Aidan Kinney. "It probably will set us back a little, but that can't really be helped. It's the way this kind of project works -- things get done when someone has the free time to do them, because as volunteers, we can't really push for deadlines or contracts. Vydal is the bloke who runs the Pâtisserie, in Main Street. Hyacinth Addington ended up much like me -- she was blown into a wall, too. Last guy in the room was miraculously unhurt -- God must love that man, Conner Hawthorne."

He smiles wryly, lopsidedly. "I probably won't be doing much painting of my own at least. I talked my G.P. into letting me not have to wear a sling because it's healing pretty well, but -- I shouldn't tempt fate."

"Kailey!?" Cassidy puts her hands to her mouth. "Is the baby okay? Oh my god..."

She reaches for her drink again to take a larger sip. She's worried about the baby.

"Now that you mention Ms. Addington, I think I do recall seeing something about that in the paper the other day." She shrugs and traces some invisible patterns along the wood of the bar with a finger. "At least you got a story out of it and not a eulogy."

Some air is blown out. Her hand sweeps an errant tendril from her face. "But, you know, weird stuff happens around here all the time. I'm surprised it was only a gas leak explosion and not, like, an explosion and a sink hole. Or an explosion and hit by lightning. Or a satellite falling out of the sky on it." Or any number of things.

Ravn can't help a chuckle; so close to the truth, and yet so far. "You're not wrong," he agrees. "This town -- it's something else when it comes to that sort of thing. You ever wonder if there's something else going on?"

Because of course he has to prod, even if it makes him sound like some kind of conspiracy theorist. It's difficult, talking to somebody who is clearly neither stupid nor ignorant, and yet they cannot, will not ever grasp that this other world that he lives in is real. He wants to make the rest of the town see. In part to prove that he is in fact sane but mostly because perfectly ordinary people die all the time here because they have no way of knowing that they ought to be defending themselves in the first place.

Then he shakes his head, dismissing the thought. "Or maybe carnivorous mermaids. Got a bloke at the centre -- great man with a hammer or a screwdriver, hard worker, really sweet fellow. Firmly convinced that the harbour is full of flesh eating mermaids lurking on unfortunate tourists."

Ravn's gaze is met with a blank stare. A sort of glossed over one, even, when he asks the question. After a moment she shakes her head ever so lightly but those tresses swing to make it look like a definitive . "No. What do you mean 'something else'? Shit happens. I still don't think we're worse than Florida /or/ Germany."

She laughs and picks up her drink to finish it. Then her eye is caught by some movement around her and she stands. As she collects her items she says, "Thanks Rav - for the drink - and for only being a little bit of an asshole about my job instead of a big huge one." She lowers her clutch and holds it tight in front of her. "It's karaoke time and I know you /won't/ go to that, so..." she smiles and tilts her head and turns to head out.

"Oh! Rav.." She only made it a couple steps away when she looks back, "Don't forget to deliver your..." and this next part is spoken with affectedly flirtatious eyes and exaggerated mouth and tongue movements, "...totally not suspicious..." now she talks normal, "...folder. And say hi to Mr. Evans for me."

She winks and wiggles her fingers in a tiny wave then moves off.