2021-06-04 - Full House

Of all the people in Gray Harbor who are not likely to become regular patrons of the Grand Olympic Casino, Ravn Abildgaard is definitely among the least likely. It's possible he's learned something from his last visit though -- about attention, unwanted, how to avoid getting. The first time he visited he did so in the company of Seth Monaghan, and he did so wearing his usual jeans and shirt ensemble because he figured he wasn't there to sip drinks and flutter around the cocktail bar. The second time, the same usual outfit because he'd just dropped past to toss some paperwork on Rhys Evans' desk -- also an endeavour that shouldn't require dressing up to the nines.

Then Cassidy Bennett happened, and he found his photograph plastered on the society pages of the Gazette.

Ravn leans towards thinking that the reason the attorney noticed him in the first place that night was that he stood out. He had no idea that a fundraiser of some sort was in progress when he wandered past, and yes, as a matter of fact, he did stand out -- as a man will, when he's wearing the only jeans in several hundred metres' radius. If he'd dressed and looked like everyone else ... And this is why he is in fact dressed up for the occasion on this, his third visit to the Casino. Not flamboyantly -- just a double-breasted suit jacket, but the tie; anyone who knows Ravn knows that there are few pieces of clothing the man hates more than ties. He must feel passionately about blending in enough to not attract any photographers' attention a second time around.

He makes his way towards the manager's office, politely declining a cocktail waitress' inquiry if he needs anything. Can he walk the walk? Yes, easily. Ravn is born and bred for a society much higher than these American nouveau riche who so desperately try to impersonate their big town peers. The Grand Olympic is a big deal by Gray Harbor standards. Gray Harbor is not a big deal by, say, New York or Los Angeles standards. It's certainly not a big deal by the standards of, say, Monte Carlo, Monaco. He never much cared for the European jetset lifestyle but that doesn't mean he's not familiar with it. It's a role he's played many times, if rarely with much pleasure.

"I was hoping Mr Evans might be able to squeeze me in," he tells the helpful secretary without bothering to apologise for not having called for an appointment; the person whose personality he is wearing like a mask does not make appointments. "If he's busy I'll go have a drink in the lounge while I wait."

Let's face it: Ravn isn't likely to fully blend in even dressed with the aim to do so, all tall and slim and walking that walk so many of the patrons wish they could've been born to. The suit may not feel ideal to him, but it looks right. Some people do notice. They don't, however, notice in the 'pictures in the papers' way, but others he's likely familiar with in passing: is he an opportunity, is he competition, is he someone they ought to recognize? He's good enough at the aura and those who do notice are sober enough that it ends at that, unless one counts just how alacritous the inquiry as to his potential beverage needs is this time. The service was good before, mind, but he's clearly been judged either a VIP or a potentially great tipper by the waitress tonight. Or both. The latter's promoted to the former often enough.

Regardless, he does make it through the more open areas with a minimum of fuss, and only a flicker of surprise from the secretary he addresses. A face she doesn't know yet, though an outfit and bearing that writes a pretty decent reference letter. Still, she knows her job better than to surprise her superiors with anything more than spontaneous coffee. A casino can be a complicated place, after all. She taps a few keys, presumably drawing up a schedule that she probably already knows the full intended shape of for the day, and her eyes indeed skim down it without needing to fully focus and settle. "Today might be a little tight, but I'll see whether Mr. Evans can fit you in. What should I tell him it's regarding, Mr...?" A meaningful pause, two prompts in one. Efficient!

"Abildgaard," the Dane replies with the small polite smile that comes with the mask he wears; Pleasant Businessman #3. "I would like his advice on a recent shipping transaction in which I am finding myself somewhat accidentally involved."

Probably safe to assume that the men who effectively runs of Monaghan's shop for him have heard of the fire on the harbour. The rest of the town has, after all -- but the rest of the town seems unaware that Monaghan's enforcers were involved, a fact which Ravn has not felt any need to educate anyone about. He's aware that he ought to tell somebody. Probably somebody wearing a badge at that. Maybe he will. Eventually. Depends a bit on what the other team has to say. Somehow, slipping into the mindset of I am accountable only to God and the law exists to maintain this status quo is easy; it comes with the title, figuratively speaking. Denmark may have stripped its aristocracy of legal privilege in 1849, but money still opens doors and removes obstacles.

If anything, he finds the ease with which he slips into character disturbing.

Ravn wanders to a convenient seating arrangement nearby, settling and casually crossing one leg over the other at the knee while waiting, expression still that pleasantly polite lack of expression. Is he aware that the occasional casino goer glances in his direction? Yes. The best way to avoid further attention is to not engage. Out of eye is out of mind, and the less impression he leaves, the more likely that no one will think enough about it to remember him half an hour from now. He reminds himself of this; over-acting is detrimental. The lady doth protest too much, and attempts to avoid attention will draw it.

And fuck Cassidy Bennett and her photograph.

Accidental involvement in shipping transactions. That is not within normal casino-operation parameters. It is also, however, not really within the secretary's business, as far as she's concerned. Maybe something went to the wrong address. Maybe he attempted an investment on his own and needs Mr. Evans to help fix the fall-out. Her responsibility is the same: a polite and personable, "Thank you, Mr. Abildgaard," not too mangled considering, "Just one moment..." and a pause in which some admirably quick typing suggests she's making the check. It's not a long wait, not really, perhaps a minute in all, but it likely feels longer with that awareness of the occasional glance. The office area rarely catches much attention from the floor, and while the secretary surely gets noted now and then, he knows: it's him getting the slightly more lingering looks. Little doubt what she's doing there, after all. He's a question.

He's also getting another look, then, one from her direction. "Mr. Abildgaard? Mr. Evans says he'll be happy to see you, but it'll be five or ten minutes before he's freed up. May I offer you a drink while you wait? Coffee, tea, something from the bar?" The latter appears not to require waiting for Rhys there, despite Ravn's earlier remark; if he wants a drink, one can be brought to him here. Or, he can go ahead and hit the lounge. The level of polite chat, from conversational to none, is also left to his discretion, and so aside from that awareness of occasional eyes, it's a reasonably comfortable wait.

Six minutes, almost exactly; that's how long before Rhys emerges, in a properly tailored (but still not bespoke, pallets of cash notwithstanding) navy suit. He's still not the kind of money Ravn is, certainly not the kind of blood, but the way he carries himself doesn't care. This is his casino -- well, sort of; part of it is -- and he seems as comfortable with it as the Dane secretly isn't.

Of course, that could always be an act too.

The grin he breaks into on spotting Ravn doesn't look like one, though. Either he's genuinely pleased to see the guy again, or he's got a knack for faking it. "Mr. Abildgaard," comes the greeting, a hand offered to shake. "Come on back. How's it going? Getting your HOPE up?" There's a quick, "Thanks, Megan," as they pass the secretary, and then they're back into the hall that leads to the actual offices -- where virtually all of the looking gets to go the other direction, or will once they're in that room with its one-way windows. Is it a relief?

Tension bleeds from Ravn as he disappears from public view; though whether it is visible to anyone who doesn't know him fairly well is up for debate. Some men want to make an impression; the Dane excels at blending in to a point he becomes part of the scenery -- drawing a look or two and then erasing himself from people's minds almost as if the Veil had a hand in matters. Maybe it's part of why he seems to have a good handle on how the Veil often works; he uses similar techniques himself -- small changes, give people a few cues and let them fill in the blanks themselves, they'll readily believe whatever story they concocted and think that it is the gospel truth that somebody else presented to them. The Veil, clearly, is a confidence artist.

He follows Rhys' lead, offering a last polite smile to Megan who is doing her job and quite well at that, and besides, a smile is duty free as they say in his native country. Only when the door does in fact shut behind them and no one else is listening in does he offer a cue to the other man: "Sorry to wander in without an appointment. Things got a little more urgent than I bartered for -- and it has to do with your, ah, operations. I could have gone to the police for help but I have a firm impression that you'd prefer for me not to. Went to a bit of effort to turn up here without drawing attention because discretion is valour and all that."

The Dane pauses and studies Rhys for a reaction; this is the first time he's outright said anything to indicate his direct awareness of the fact that a lot of not quite legal operations in this town are orchestrated from right here (and the more mundane issues of how exactly to do them, from Joey Kelly's gym). "I don't want trouble," he adds. "But I have some people who are in trouble, and I want to help them without running the risk of them identifying a couple of your people to the authorities."

It'd be an overstatement to say Rhys knew Ravn fairly well yet, but the Dane's not the only one who finds it useful to keep an eye on how other people react to things, and what those little details suggest about the bigger picture. To, not to put too fine a point on it, a person's tells. That bleed of tension's caught and noted, filed away with the rest of the data the accountant's assembled regarding the folklorist so far.

Megan returns the smile as they go -- no cost, indeed -- and Rhys holds the door for Ravn, then closes it behind them. A gesture toward the chairs as Ravn begins to talk, and the shorter man strolls around toward his seat on the other side of that desk, in no obvious hurry. Brows lift a touch at the mention of things getting a bit 'urgent', and then the outright acknowledgement of 'operations'. It is a reaction, though not a very overt one. Sort of thing that might put a guy on edge, that acknowledgement, but Seth did vouch for Ravn, and nothing in the Count's background's suggested the enforcer's sense is off. "If I'm so stacked with appointments I can't fit anyone else in at all, that definitely qualifies as a bad day," Rhys replies, settling into the chair. Casual, comfortable. A flicker of the grin, "Unless their problems all involve their pants hanging wrong 'cause their wallets are too thick, I guess, but I'm pretty sure that's not on anyone's agenda today."

There's a single tap of fingertips lightly against the desk as he goes more serious and thoughtful -- pads, not nails, near-silent but a clear movement nonetheless. "Trouble's pretty unpopular, all in all, yeah. You don't want it, I don't want it, you could leave it in an open locker at the bus station and probably no one there'd want it either. I appreciate you aiming not to bring it here along with you. So. What kind've you got, exactly? Who's involved, and how?"

Ravn steeples his gloved fingers and returns Rhys' look evenly. "I've got five young women out of whom just one actually speaks English. All five of which were on that ship that caught fire. All five of which were victims of human trafficking. They tell me they were saved by police agents and told to run off to find the HOPE centre -- which they did. The police agents didn't give their names or show their badges but they were a big ginger guy and a tough looking blonde."

He smiles slightly. "I read the papers. There were bodies found in that fire, and honestly, it's none of my business. As a good, upstanding member of society, what I should do is send these girls on to the actual police. I'm not going to do that -- and I haven't told them that the people who got them off that ship weren't police, either. My idea is to have our Seattle lawyer work through whatever paperwork is required to get them back to wherever they're from real nice and quiet, and no questions asked -- after all, the guys who abused them are dead. But before I do that, I want to be sure I'm not getting in your way or leaving things you need to get closure on. Consider this my olive branch? HOPE needs to be able to operate in this town without the police breathing down our neck and without you guys doing the same. Some level of mutual trust."

Even look meets even look, and instead of the grin that seems to come so easily, there's just a tiny upward lift at one side Rhys's mouth at the description of these 'cops' who failed to present any ID, and a flick of his gaze upward, along with a small shake of the head. Gazes meet again, with a small tilt of the head, and he first says, simply, "Thank you." There are reasonable odds an organization that's been intertwined with this town for generations has ways to deal with these things if necessary... but it's far, far easier to have it not be needed.

"There's some kinds of business that's not gonna go on in this town," Rhys says, tone and glance level, "Not while we have something to say about it. A contract's only valid if it's signed voluntarily. So no, I don't think helping them get home's gonna end up getting in our way, here. In fact, if you run into any obstacles in getting this to happen quiet? Let me know. I might know a guy who could give you a hand." Another of those light taps of finger-pads to desk, considering. "What languages do they speak? Don't want to make things any worse for them, but just in case we hit any questions they might have answers for before they go, that'd be handy to know."

"One of them speaks English. One speaks English and Spanish, one only Spanish. The last two ? One is Serbian, I'm pretty sure, because she keeps mentioning the city of Beograde. The other one, I have no idea -- but the Serbian speaker understands her, so I'm guessing one of the Balkan languages." Ravn makes a small face. "If you do need to talk to them? You'll want Virginia to translate - that's the English speaker. She seems to be able to communicate with the Europeans. Not sure how much or how well. For the record, I don't speak Spanish or any of the Balkan languages."

He does not look very surprised at Rhys' statement about types of business that seems acceptable. Possibly not so much out of some strange delusion that the local criminal organisation is secretly an organisation of vigilantes and bleeding hearts; more, just, paying attention to Joey Kelly. "There are things going on in this city that I don't know about, and I'd like for it to stay that way," the Dane says. "In part because of plausible deniability, and in part because it doesn't appeal to me. I know some of the people who work for your operation. I don't need to know more than that to know what kind of operation you're running. And to be honest, Mr Evans? You're peanuts compared to some quite legal operations carried out by so-called pillars of society. Let's help each other out -- also the next time something like this happens. I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine -- just as I'll try to scratch the GHPD's, and somehow, perhaps, we can just quietly keep this town working."

"I speak Spanish. Balkan languages, though, not a word. So, thanks. That's good to know." Rhys gives a bit of the smaller smile, adding, "Don't speak any Danish, either, though I do love your pastries." It's delivered earnestly enough that it almost certainly isn't, though chances are it is true. Who doesn't like a danish now and then? He may well have judged the odds that Ravn gets that nearly every time to be high, however. ...and did it anyway.

Virginia's name and ability are mentally filed away, in case it's needed, and a small, tilted inclination of the head acknowledges both that Ravn doesn't know or want to know much of what's going on, and that he knows some of the people involved. Being declared 'peanuts' gets a lifted brow, but it's one that seems to come with a certain amount of amusement. "Sometimes it's amazing what's 100% legal," he agrees, "So far. But there's reasons I'm here, instead of staying in Seattle. And a lot of 'em boil down to keeping this town working. So, as long as you don't scratch the GHPD's in ways that make them stretch out in this general direction, sounds like we're on the same basic team, here."

What Americans refer to as a Danish has never actually seen Denmark; it's a distant cousin, thrice removed and crossbred with a bagel, of the pastries that the Danish themselves refer to as Viennese -- and the Viennese just stare at you blankly if you inquire (and then possibly offer you Apfelstrudel instead). Ravn decides to leave that one where it is. "Gray Harbor is a troubled town in its own ways, Mr Evans. Did you know that comparatively, Gray Harbor is the single most dangerous town to be in Washington State, if you're homeless or an otherwise vulnerable person without much of a social network? Bloke did some data crunching and showed me, a while back. This town has some very serious problems. I am biased, of course, given that Reyes' sniper put me in intensive care -- as I see it, however, we're all trying to keep the wheels turning in whatever ways we can. No point wasting time getting in each other's way."

It's not the first time recently Ravn has been reminded just how much easier it is, sticking to his own 'kind' -- the people who shine. Explaining the need for cooperation to someone like Rhys Evans is difficult; more so without coming across like he's wanting to get a piece of the underworld operations for himself. It's so much easier to give the speech about not caring about very much but Team Humanity to someone who has also run for their life from Team Dolorphages.

Ironic, though, that the other person he's been trying to reach this way has been been the Assistant District Attorney. Even more ironic that of the two, it's the Casino manager, crime underboss who seems to be listening. He files this away for future reference; the man to talk to on one side is de la Vega; on the other, Kelly and Evans.

"Oh, one more thing before I stop taking your time," the Dane says. "Speaking of those vulnerable people. I'd appreciate it if we can declare the HOPE centre a kind of demilitarised zone -- I don't want to deal with more drug debt or turf fighting than I have to, though obviously situations will happen because kids are careless and vulnerable people often pick the quick solutions. I'm of a mind to try to sort any trouble quietly, with the least possible fuss. I've seen what happens here when things aren't solved quietly -- Liu shooting up the bloody police precinct, Reyes shooting up a garden expo, I was there. One group of people that I can talk to running the underworld in this town makes my life easier too, Evans. I'm being entirely selfish, I don't want folks from out of town coming in, recruiting the people I'm trying to help for a gang war."

Folks, monsters, whatever.

Look, no one's going to turn down Apfelstrudel anyway, okay?

Rhys's brow furrows a bit at the presumably-per-capita information; no, he didn't know that, and he's not unwilling to have Ravn aware of that, either. "How is he defining 'vulnerable person'? And 'town', come to think of it? 'cause Seattle, Spokane, and Tacoma have some neighbourhoods I definitely wouldn't recommend..." Not that the recent Reyes situation did a lot for improving general dangerousness levels in the city. "That's worrying, though. Hopefully your HOPE center'll make a difference there, right?" Presumably that's the idea, particularly given that stat. Whether he fully believes it without seeing the data himself or not.

Only a half-smile in the noting, "I think we were haunting Addington Memorial at the same time, yeah." He got shot in the head, after all. And had to tell his girlfriend that. Not his best day... even before you figure in Neil. Poor kid. There's satisfaction in knowing a good portion of the evidence that ought to keep Reyes thoroughly out of their hair came from his work, but some days it's hard not to regret a trigger unpulled...

"Look. As far as I'm concerned, the fewer people are getting hurt and the smoother the town is running, the better for everyone. A city's a kind of ecosystem. If it's not in balance, it'll try to find one. It wants stability. So if trouble comes up and it can be solved quietly? I'm all for quietly." Rhys leans back in the chair, studying Ravn a moment. "That center's not the sort of place anyone ought to be selling stuff or settling scores. As long as it's working to help those people, it's off-limits. If there's a problem, let us know." 'Us' being him or Joey, presumably. Felix probably wouldn't care, but Ravn would find it a lot trickier to get an audience with Felix in any case. "And if you have any issues getting things up to code and all, lemme know that too. Depending what, might know someone to point you at." A little shrug.

"I am fairly certain this particular statistic referenced 'vulnerable' as essentially homeless, crazy, or both. But the amount of domestic violence reports and perfectly ordinary people who seem to just ... snap ... was brought up as well." Because the dolorphages plant seeds in frayed human minds and waits for them to mature. But he can't say that. "The economical downturn Gray Harbor has made the town as a whole vulnerable. Every town has its bad neighbourhood, but we seem to have an unusually high ratio of homeless people coming into town -- and a lot of them seem to disappear from public records without anyone paying much attention. Those are the people HOPE will be focusing most of our attention on."

Ravn studies Rhys' face right back; this man has a reputation for avoiding too much attention, an almost pathological need to pass through life unnoticed. When it is the needs of others that dominate his mind he seems to lose a lot of that urge to look away, fade in with the wall paper, and not challenge anyone.

"It seems to me we have a perfectly good understanding, Mr Evans." A small smile plays on the Dane's lips. "I don't expect trouble of the kind that might require me to call on Joey Kelly. But it's good to know that if something does come up -- we're on the same page. Let's just keep this little ecosystem humming nice and quiet. It's not perfect but it's home."